


Bullets

by Arch_Calzen



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: (WITH INCOHERENT WAILING AFTERWARDS), (a LOT of others), (this isn't about OCs at all i promise), Angst, Cancer, Canon-Typical Violence, Depiction of wounds, Depression, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Gender-Neutral Runner Five, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Much Hurt and teeny weeny comfort but what can you do, Mute Runner Five, Obscure references to random media stuck in my head, Off-screen Relationship(s), Oh and Also, SO: SPOILERS FOR END OF S2 AND S3 UP TO 'The Man Who Sold The World', Sam also appears i guess, Trash child being a trash child, ah oh forgot to say about spoilers, i mean he's in Five's headset being displeased, mentions of others - Freeform, of sorts, off-screen original character death, oh and Five is Very Gender-Neutral, these tags are a mess and i'm not sure if i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 17:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6161434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arch_Calzen/pseuds/Arch_Calzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Five convinced The Man Who Sold The World to return to Abel?</p><p>(Green hills and enemies. These things, they make us sentimental inside.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullets

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo yeah, this is canon-compliant right up to TMWSTW. Basically, I grabbed the mission and ran away with it. I guess my fic is very, very, VERY much AU to what actually happens in the following missions, but I just couldn't leave it like that, I had to fix it.
> 
> (I had to stop jogging for a week while I was writing this in order to not ruin the impression, and I still have absolutely NO idea how this arc continues, so please don't spoil! D:)
> 
> So there! ZR belongs to ZR people, song lyrics were kindly and unknowingly lent by Tunng, I own nothing but my mistakes and regrets. Hope you enjoy, regardless (:
> 
> (For drawings of How I See The Characters (including Simon 2.0) and the amazing opportunity to yell and throw things at me, visit templeait.tumblr.com)

_we’re catching bullets with our heads_  
_and hearts and all the darkest_  
_parts of us; it’s strange to find such lights_  
_in such endless night_

 

It’s all Five’s idea, really. Not like Simon never entertained the thought of coming to Abel (coming _back_ to Abel?), but it’s always been more of an abstract concept. Of the ‘dreaming in the night and suddenly waking up and clutching the blankets because it hurts too much’ variety.

But, of course, Five is persistent. Persistent and too bloody Noble and Proper to leave someone behind, even if that someone is literally the scum of earth. Five is almost like Jamie, come to think of it, and Simon suppresses a shudder. Maybe Five’s Nobility and Properness prompt them to make Simon tag along not out of pity or compassion, but for him to face the music and be judged and whatnot.

‘I really can’t, and you know that. They will shoot me on sight.’ And have every right to do it.

The walls of his makeshift home, his Villain’s Lair, Ha Ha Ha, absorb the hollow sound of his voice, echoing nothing. The familiarity of having these one-sided conversations with Five -- who scribbles furiously away at the moment -- forces something in his chest to clench, and Simon does his very best to ignore it. ‘His very best’ isn’t something overwhelmingly awesome these days, but he does try.

Simon’s meagre Morse and sign language skills got rusty from misuse, and Five resorted to unpacking their tiny notebook and a gnawed pencil when it became apparent that Simon wasn’t really following them. Simon watches Five write out their reply, how they grip the notebook in their right hand, the left hand flying over the torn page. It would be easier to sit down, probably (Simon would have to, if he were to write something), but Five remains upright, their stance making it obvious that they can take off any second, at the first sign of danger. Be quick or be dead. Simon likes to think he taught Five that.

His mind wanders off, and it’s only when Five thrusts the notebook at him does he come back to reality.

_not if i vouch for you. at the very least, to get you through the gts. ppl will be angry, but they’ll listen to me. i’ll convince them to let you stay_

Sometimes, Simon tries to imagine what it would be like, to look all of them in the eye. What would they do? Tear him limb from limb? Nah…They are sensible. They are neither zoms, nor Simon.

‘Why, Five?’ he asks them. He so desperately needs to know. What do they expect from him? From this whole situation? Why not just drag him kicking and screaming back to Abel? (Five’s size doesn’t fool him, their right hook is the meanest thing on this planet, so if they wanted to force him, Simon’s chances were slim, especially with his left side blind.) Why does Five take the pains to make him see their point?

Five frowns impatiently, lets out a heavy sigh, then puts the notebook and the pencil on the table. Their left hand travels down in a jerky spiral, where both hands describe a horizontal circle with index fingers.

Somehow, Simon recognizes the sign, perhaps from the times when usually composed Five would suddenly explode and deliver a passionate, if silent, speech about a better tomorrow and all that rot. It always included a lot of hand waving, obviously, and sometimes Simon would lose the thread anyway, even though his sign language was much better back then.

‘Humanity’. In both of its glorious meanings, naturally, and Simon turns away and smiles ruefully, even though Five can’t see his mouth. Of course, Five would say something like that. Noble and Proper, that’s Five right there, and also unable to resist movie-like one-liners.

Simon shakes his head, remembering why he used to be so fond of Five. He likes to think it stopped after they looked at him one last time and ran away, with zombies closing in on the opposite side and Jamie’s bat crushing his outstretched fingers. Simon likes to think it was a turning point, because otherwise he has no idea where it is.

Five still waits, studying him carefully, their eyebrows knit together. What does he really have to lose, though? Even if people at Abel judge and execute him (if they find a way to do it), is that truly a worse outcome than rotting away forever, locked in this immortal and damaged body? If he has even the tiniest possible chance of-- of-- of _something,_ would taking it be truly a worse decision than sending Five away as he intended?

‘Why would they, er, listen to you, anyway? It’s not like you’re on top of the food chain,’ Simon can’t help wondering aloud. Of course, Five already proved to be worth their weight in zombie vaccine many times over, but -- well. It’s Simon the traitor, after all. Why would Five’s vouching be enough to tip the scales?

(It sounds like ‘food _thsain’;_ with so many additional holes in the face Simon can’t help but lisp. Five kindly pretends not to notice.)

Five gestures at the Comansys papers still spread on the table, then at Simon (the meaning is obvious: he is to deliver the documents to Abel and say that he nicked them; the truth, that is), then makes a spectacle of sighing, rolling their eyes and rubbing their forehead, and Simon can’t help but cock his head in curiousity. Now what would Five be so embarrassed about?

They tug their pack to the front and fish out a small object, offering it reluctantly to Simon.

It’s an oval brass badge, obviously made by someone unskilled yet enthusiastic. In Simon’s days (what a strange thing to say), runners never wore badges: any metal was too precious to be used on something not immediately functional, and there wasn’t really anyone to craft insignia. Abel is packed full of people who can work with machinery and electronics and other metal-related stuff, but not a single person with a knack for jewellery making. Perhaps someone new arrived after Simon left. He snorts out a laugh (it hisses uncomfortably through his left cheek) and turns the badge, trying to catch some light. Three words are carved out, the gashes in the metal deep and uneven, but the inscription is perfectly readable.

 _‘“Head of Runners”?_ Really, Five?’ he smirks, and Five contorts their face in a grimace of exasperation and snatches the badge back with a huff. Somehow Simon gets the feeling that said exasperation is caused not by his reaction, but by the situation as a whole, which, let’s be honest, is slightly hilarious.

***

In the end, his decision is not required. The Dedlocks have finally figured out the safest path to his home (having probably watched him lead Five through the Forest Of Limbs; took them long enough, the dim bastards), and are only too happy to cauterize the wound on the face of their territory and chase the offender out. There is some analogy to be made, what with cutting out the rot and all that jazz, but even Simon is tired of his salt by now.

There is little time to pack; Simon ends up grabbing the papers, his gun and knives, a set of clothes, and the iPod (the tiny solar panel died long ago from some malfunction, but he can’t help clinging to the only thing that would talk to him without intent to kill after he left Abel), before Five motions for him to look out of the hole in the wall that substitutes for a window. He does so carefully, following the direction of Five’s gaze, and sees the undergrowth moving in the murky shadows. They have maybe a couple of hours until sunset. It’s supposed to be enough to get out of here.

They move swiftly through the forest, Simon leading the way past the biting heads strewn on the ground. (Five’s face is unnaturally blank when he casts a glance over his shoulder, which speaks volumes about how much it disgusts them, but you gotta do what you gotta do, and dismembering zombies to keep intruders out is, in his opinion and experience, not the worst thing one is capable of.)

When they leave the forest, Simon sees smoke rising behind them. No doubt the Dedlocks have already looted the place (not that there’s much to loot, anyway) and set the hut on fire.

Oh well. Simon turns toward the red light on Abel’s tower, blinking steadily in the distance. This is Five’s territory now, and they take the lead. They don’t run toward the tower straight away, turning right and weaving a path along the edge instead, but Five knows better, so Simon adjusts his pack and tries to keep up, valiantly disregarding the twinge in his bitten right ankle.

***

As soon as there is signal, Five checks in with Sam and calms his frantic tinny sounds of worry by tapping something out on the microphone. Simon doesn’t even try to read the truncated Morse, but soon they are in cameras’ range and Sam realizes that Five is not alone. Simon can’t hear the exact words through the headset, but apparently Sam is not a happy bunny, because Five rolls their eyes and blows lightly into the microphone. Simon recognizes the gesture: while not painful, the resulting noise is enough to make the other person pause for a moment; Five’s signal can be roughly translated as ‘Please Do Shut Up And Listen For A Sec, Sam’.

They can already make out the armed sentries at the gates, no one is chasing them, so Five slows to a halt and, after a glance at Simon, resumes tapping.

_dot-dash-dot dot-dot-dot-dash-dash_

This is a combination Simon has heard often enough to remember. _R3._

After a pause, the headset bursts with Sam’s distorted voice, and Five cringes. Simon revises his previous evaluation: Sam is _definitely_ not a happy bunny. Five’s eyes are focused on something invisible as they converse with Sam, but after another bout of disapproval from the other side of the wall Five suddenly steps forward and to the side, shielding Simon from the sentries, their face a mask of mulish stubbornness. Simon is too startled by their action to move, and is contemplating if he should be scared of the prospect of dying from (un)friendly fire (how many bullets would it take to actually kill him?), but Five keeps tapping, and a long minute later Sam stops shouting and now just grumbles discontentedly.

Five nods at him, and they jog to the gates.

***

Simon is tackled as soon as the gates are lowered behind them. People he doesn’t recognize hold him down, it hurts, and the rags threaten to slip from his face, which is pushed sideways into the ground. He hears Five let out an angry wordless cry, which is as close to speaking as they ever get, and sees them take a hasty step toward the pileup, when an unfamiliar voice rings across the compound, turning heads of several accidental onlookers.

‘Runner Five, step aside!’

It sounds authoritative and stern, and Five stops (doesn’t move _away;_ just stops), and Simon twists his neck, trying to catch sight of whoever is talking. A woman in military uniform strides purposefully toward them, and something tells him she’s the one currently in charge. Probably a replacement of Major De Santa. Simon wonders if she is just as party pooper-y.

People ease off him and haul him up, never letting Simon find his footing. The military woman keeps speaking, but Simon sees someone following her, and everything else is drowned out by the sight. It’s Janine. She comes up to stand beside the woman and glares right through him, mouth set in a grim line. She didn’t really change, which, Simon guesses, is for the better: Simon changed, and look what became of him.

Will she even want to talk to him? Deign him with a single word? Probably not. Righteous, wrathful Janine will not lower herself to acknowledging the mere existence of the likes of him.

Simon used to ask himself if he would ever try to come to Abel.

It’s been maybe a minute since he’s entered Abel, and now is the first time he asks himself _why_ he came. There is no answer. Whatever has gripped his guts after the conversation with Five seems to tighten.

***

After taking away his pack and weapons and searching his clothes (the guy visibly recoils when he catches a glimpse of Simon’s face under the cloth), Simon is cuffed and brought into the so-called war room in Janine’s house. How often was he here in the past, discussing strategies, planning attacks and defenses, and generally being a useful little soldier. Now Simon is regarded with sour and suspicious looks, not unlike what one would cast at a dangerous and possibly rabid animal. Pure white Abel sneering scornfully at its misbehaving son, how predictable, how in character.

There are only six people in the room. The woman at the head of the longish table introduces herself as Amelia Spens and doesn’t invite him to take a seat. Janine is sitting next to her, studying the papers from Simon’s pack. Five paces the room, seemingly still cooling down from the run (or possibly just angry, though Simon can’t begin to fathom why: was Five seriously expecting any other greeting?); and then there are the two men who brought him in and now stand to either side of him.

Simon shifts his weight from the abused ankle and breathes in.

‘What a way to greet a guy! Can’t help but feel at home.’ This place does something to him. He’s not sure what, but some of the old cockiness trickles in, like every time he would see someone with a sour mine and take a personal offence to it, because these mines are pretty damn sour.

‘Mr Lauchlan, why are you here?’ Spens ignores his forced cheer, not rising to the bait.

That’s a good question, though. Funny how Simon is not the only one here who is confused by the whole shebang.

‘Five brought me in?’ he shrugs, casting a glance at them.

Five stopped pacing and is leaning on the wall now, glaring at something, arms crossed over their chest.

‘And exactly _why_ did you think it would be a good idea to bring in the traitor?’ Spens addresses Five now.

They jerk their chin at the papers in Janine’s hands, then nod at Simon. Looks like explaining the gig is going to be his responsibility. Figures. Never team up with a mute, especially when it involves plotting and unearthing secret documents about people who zombify other people, that’s what Gran always told him, either before or after the ‘wicked to the core’ refrain. But did Simon _ever_ listen to what the old crone said?

‘Well, I was just strolling around, minding my own business, being an accomplished traitor, then found some mysterious notes, you know how it always happens,’ Simon grins, forgetting for a moment that his face is covered. ‘Long story short, thought you guys might be interested, what with your high and important mission and whatnot. Coulda given it to Five, but didn’t really want them to wander around all alone, see? Bet you’ll crack the code in a second, took me only a week or something, but I’m the brainless one here. So there you go. No need to thank me.’

Simon is tired, his ankle hurts, and he seriously hopes that they won’t interrogate him for long, but hope and Simon have never really been very compatible. After the vital Comansys questions the two women shift the discussion to less pressing matters, like why he is alive, for example. (No one can say they’re unable to set their priorities straight.)

It’s amazing how overwhelming people can be after so much time spent completely alone. Simon eventually loses himself in the blur, replying automatically (maybe even joking; it’s a trait that at least used to be ingrained in him at some point, so maybe some of it hasn’t transformed into staggering amounts of self-irony yet), and jerks awake only when Five suddenly steps forward and gestures at him, explaining something to Janine and Spens. They look doubtful (well, Spens does; Janine looks vaguely pissed off), but Five keeps waving around, making Janine interpret for Spens in a low voice, and Simon notices them use a sign they chose for Paula Cohen, Maxine’s missing girlfriend. Now what is going on and what does she have to do with it?

Simon has no time to reach a conclusion, because Spens beats him to it.

‘Very well. In this case, you are to stay in the isolator until we notify Dr Cohen. She will then decide on the course of action herself,’ she says and stands up, indicating that the conversation is over.

Janine collects the papers and leaves the room without another word. Simon would like to watch her go, but she passes on his left side.

***

The ‘isolator’ is a fancy word for a room in one of the warehouses. There’s only a bed and a small table: the former for someone who is suspected to be bitten, the latter for the doctor when she comes in to check the vitals and needs somewhere to put down the instruments and the clipboard for a minute. No chair, of course; it’s not like the poor sod would have visitors, and it’s not like the invaluable doc would stay a second longer than absolutely necessary. Besides, how much would one need for just two days? Or even less.

Simon inspects the tiny bathroom next, which is not even really a bathroom, because there’s just a sink and a lavatory pan, with a bucket of water between them.

Simon hears the door to the room close -- didn’t hear it open, -- and it turns out that someone returned his pack. Sans weapons, of course, but it’s something of his own, at least. Winter is mild this year, but it’s still chilly without central heating (or any heating), so Simon tugs off the jacket, dumps his possessions on the bed, picks up a sweater and puts it on. Its collar catches on Simon’s chin and he winces, pressing a hand gingerly to his face. One of the wounds starts throbbing, and Simon pulls the hand away only to see the sweater’s cuff covered in something sticky. Brilliant. What an utterly brilliant and beautiful and b… _bedazzling_ start to a _brand_ new chapter of his pathetic life. Amazing. Wonderful.

The jaw keeps throbbing, and Simon washes it carefully in the bathroom, refusing to look in the dirty mirror above the sink. What he sees out of the corner of the eye, what he feels under his fingertips, what he watches run down the drain -- it’s all quite enough.

***

Dr Cohen -- Paula -- is… professional. _Paula the Pro. Prola. Or Praula?_ Simon giggles quietly at the thought. The isolator isn’t what one would call a bag of laughs in terms of entertainment, but one has to make do. (Sometimes Simon wonders if he’s going mad. Sometimes he’s _sure_ he’s going mad, and wonders instead if it’s a comforting thought.)

Simon sees that she doesn’t know what to make of him. Well, ditto. He’s heard Maxine talking about Paula often enough to have at least some grasp of her character, but hearing about a person from someone who loves them and meeting said person are two completely different things.

Paula is professional, but she is soft, too. Soft brown eyes, soft brown hair, soft olive skin. Her deep voice sounds soothing, though Simon can’t figure out if it’s natural compassion showing its face or a trait she consciously nurtured to deal with patients. Paula _seems_ soft; she most likely isn’t.

She’s heard about him, too. It’s obvious, what with the way Paula looks at him, even under a mask of professional detachment (flawed as it is; inhabitants of Abel are never truly detached. They love and they hate, regardless of what the facts tell them. It’s a wonder Abel still stands, since everyone seems to be guided by the heart… and then has the _nerve_ to judge other people). There’s something else in the mix, though. No doubt Paula was informed about the circumstances of Simon’s arrival, so she’s probably unsure if she’s supposed to be thankful for the Comansys notes, in case they eventually help bring Maxine back. Hiding behind the doctor attitude is a sound strategy, anyway. Simon would do the same.

Paula tries to get Simon to talk about what has happened to him, because he refuses to show his wounds, and Simon guides the conversation to Van Ark instead. He pokes and prods her, offering bits of information and watching if they affect her, and smirks in satisfaction when Paula huffs at his classic ‘a little intel here, a vial of whatever Maxine mixed up there’. He never used to be so spiteful, but one would guess that nearly dying changes people.

At the end of the day, Paula takes a sample of his blood to check if there’s anything valuable to know about the effects of the drug (as if Simon can’t tell her himself. Damn scientists), and leaves him alone for the night.

Simon wonders what she has planned for him. He can’t just rot away in the isolator, sooner or later they’ll either make him work, or use him as a test subject to figure out whatever they’re currently trying to figure out (Abel is always in the middle of one mess or another). Now which option would that be?

***

Simon isn’t sure if he should like Paula for their similarities, or dislike for _dis_ similarities. Paula tells him a bit about her work for Van Ark, and, well, she did spend a lot of time in the organization, even -- and especially -- after everything went pawpaw-shaped. Her voice is calm when she tells him about it, but it’s the calm of a person who knows that they did all they could and came out victorious in the end. After all, Van Ark _is_ dead. Van Ark 0, Paula 1.

(Simon was slightly startled when he heard about Van Ark’s death.)

(That was before he built the hut and started looting his labs. Earlier he was nothing but a sobbing, dripping wreck. He still kind of is, let’s face it.)

(Simon was startled, because Van Ark was as immortal as one could get. It made him pause. He _should_ have died, right? So why hasn’t he?)

But, unlike Simon, Paula never fully succumbed. Both of them were forced to do things they didn’t necessarily like, but Paula figured it out and fought against it every second, in every small way she could, while Simon cradled his aching head and carried on being a deceitful little scumbag. Paula didn’t break where Simon did.

Something’s missing in the puzzle, but Simon doesn’t want to think about it any longer, it does no good for one’s self-esteem.

***

The next day, Paula tells him that she didn’t manage to get any meaningful results out of the blood tests. Again, _as if_ Simon couldn’t have predicted that.

‘I don’t understand,’ Paula leans against the table. ‘He administered the same drug to several people, and with what equipment I have, I don’t see anything unusual in the way the components of the drug altered your blood -- apart from the fact that they did, but that’s the world we live in now,’ she pushes herself away from the table and starts pacing the room in measured steps. ‘It’s the same, yet your healing factor is practically non-existent, as you say, and you don’t need regular plasmapheresis to keep you from turning into a zombie. Since the drug interacts with DNA, it’s obvious that there will be differences in each separate case, but there must be _evidence_ in your blood, and I can’t find any.’

‘Here’s another piece of trivia for your mighty brain to chew on: the same thing that rid me of the healing factor cured cancer.’

Paula stops and turns around to look at him. ‘You had cancer?’

 _’…Cells dividing and dividing and dividing until some day one of them -- only one, that’s all it takes -- and soon you’ve got your own death growing inside you.’_ A headache that appeared at some point and never really left. Pins and needles, so insignificant that he attributed them to side effects of gymratting his life away. Drowsiness that he easily fixed with a morning cup of caffeinated drug. Funny how it never alarmed him. Funny how arrogant he was, how adamantly _sure_ that his body was a _perfect machine._ Funny how he knew something was terribly wrong only after volunteering as a healthy test subject, of all things, for a project that studied heart failures. That was when they ran an MRI, among other preliminary checks, and found out that he was anything but healthy.

That was also when Simon noticed that the vision in his left eye started to go weird. As if he was constantly wearing a cap or something, but only over one eye. Half a cap.

‘Duh. Had a round of chemo, got better. They said they’d give it another go if it worsened again, or maybe schedule for a surgery. Never made it to either, though. I was not terribly fond of the idea of letting zombies cut my head open. Wonder why I wasn’t so smart the second time around.’

It wasn’t that bad for quite a long time, especially compared to the whole world tumbling down to hell. Simon didn’t even have a spare minute to worry properly. People were dying around him because they weren’t fast enough, strong enough, alert enough. Simon was, and he counted it as a blessing. He was the _lucky_ one.

Until it started to get worse. It seemed that the little bugger lay dormant for a while, perhaps too mesmerized by the destruction all around Simon to get on with destroying _him._ But then it kicked in again.

It progressed quickly. Sleepiness, nausea, splitting headaches. Sometimes so much pressure would build up inside his skull, Simon could only clutch his head and hope that it doesn’t explode before pushing the eyeballs out of their sockets. It was blinding. Sometimes a leg or an arm would refuse to cooperate for a minute. He kept up appearances, but doing so was getting more difficult every day. Simon understood he was dying. He understood that no amount of running would keep it from catching up eventually. He was putting it all off further and further, unwilling to face the problem, hoping that maybe it would go away or just lie dormant again. But there was no more time. He couldn’t put it off anymore _because there was nowhere to put off._

Van Ark became aware of that through his own little mean ways. And Simon so desperately wanted to _live,_ but at first the sense of loyalty (laughable now, he knows) and tricking himself into thinking he could discern right from wrong were winning.

By that time, Simon was completely blind in one eye and his overall condition kept getting worse. One night, a violent seizure left him disoriented and _terrified,_ gasping and tangled in the sheets. Thankfully, it was the only attack, and nobody was around to see it, but he was shaken for several days afterwards.

Ever after that night, he kept saying no, though his stubbornness gradually lost all meaning and became stubbornness for the sake of it. But Van Ark was patient, and he knew Simon would break eventually, if only he waited long enough.

He didn’t have to. One morning, Simon woke up with a cap over his right eye.

He never told anyone anything, naturally: at first, because there was no way to operate it, anyway (and chemotherapy probably died out in the first days of the apocalypse), and later because how suspicious would that be if a person with terminal cancer (at that point there was no doubt that it was terminal) suddenly became completely healthy again?

Not completely, though. He never regained sight in the left eye, but the right one made an impressive attempt, which could even be considered successful. Simon thought it was strange: why would the drug cure a horrible illness, but not something so simple? On the other hand, Van Ark did promise to get rid of _cancer,_ not of the collateral damage. Simon should have read the _‘mighty fine print’_ before selling his soul so cheaply.

On the _other_ other hand, a zombie clawed the upper eyelid open, so Simon would probably have lost sight in the left eye in any case.

Amazing how he didn’t die during any of the runs, considering the fact that he was steadily losing sight throughout the year, and losing control over his limbs from time to time. God watches over fools, though in this case God must have a sick sense of humour, letting Simon run around like a headless chicken until he ended up where he is now. If God were merciful, he’d let Simon die on a regular run.

Simon realizes he’s been silent for a while now, and Paula looks expectantly at him.

‘Uh. What?’

‘I asked what stage it was when you were treated with Van Ark’s drug.’

Simon cringes, torn back to reality. ‘Let’s say, I stood a credible chance of having to give up the _Runner Of The Month_ title.’

It’s obviously not what Paula’s medical brain wants to hear, but Simon isn’t going to discuss this. He can blather all day long about the shit he did while on Van Ark’s leash, but not about that. Paula looks displeased, so he opts for switching the topic again.

‘And anyway, isn’t the high command afraid of leaving the only doc in the township alone with a deranged psychopath? Moreover, isn’t the doc herself afraid of possible consequences?’ Interesting how the question hasn’t popped in his head earlier.

‘Don’t flatter yourself, you are neither deranged nor psychopathic. And I will have no problem in dealing with you, should the necessity arise,’ Paula replies calmly.

It sounds either cryptic or too bloody self-assured at first. That’s when it finally jolts through him, and Simon searches her hands, her face, notes the slight clamminess of her skin, the weird dullness of her eyes, the shimmering energy -- it’s barely there, no one would ever notice, but Simon has seen it often enough in the mirror, has felt this shimmering under his skin often enough to know what it looks like when one tries to overpower it by sheer force of will.

 _‘You…_ So that’s why…’ He is unable to resist the huge grin, though it pulls at the damaged cheek. It’s the funniest thing in the world. ‘He experimented on you, too? I should have guessed sooner! Ha!’ Paula flinches and narrows her eyes, but the sick mirth bubbles inside Simon, and he laughs in long wheezes, raising his face to the faraway ceiling. ‘You are a _zombie!’_

‘Firstly, this is none of your business,’ her eyes shine threateningly behind the glasses. He’s managed to hit a soft spot! Bang the drums! ‘Secondly, I am not.’

‘Don’t be like this, now what happened to you? Sold your soul to the Devil for eternal happiness?’ (That’s what Simon tried to do, anyway.) ‘Just working for him wasn’t enough anymore, you wanted the full version, no ads? Don’t worry, you can tell Simon everything,’ he looks at Paula, still grinning. ‘Simon here has heard enough shit in his life, he can hear you out as well.’

Simon sees that he missed this time. Paula isn’t on defense anymore, now she’s just irritated. She calmly collects her things and pauses in the doorway.

‘I’ll talk to you when you grow up.’

And then Paula’s gone, the lab coat swishing dramatically behind her, no doubt too busy to deal with the resident overgrown child. Simon pulls his knees up to the chest and sits like that for a long time.

The only window is small and close to the ceiling (wouldn’t do to have a newly-turned zombie reaching it and jumping out like a decomposed jack-in-the-box, now that would ruin the mood), but he still hears the voices of people outside, footsteps, clanks, jingles. At some point Sam asks Nine and Thirteen to come to the gates for the afternoon run (as always, his voice is different when filtered through the crackle of speakers; somehow it makes him sound more diligent and responsible, like children sound grown-up when they pretend to make phone calls); the iconic ‘Raise the gates!’ announces their return several hours later. Without consciously paying attention, Simon notes the tone of Sam’s voice, which is neither tense, nor relieved: no casualties, no near brushes. No super-secret and important discoveries, neither, because the human equivalent of ten puppies in a hoodie wouldn’t be able to conceal his excitement even if it killed him.

Outside, the township carries on living. Simon doesn’t want it ruined anymore -- no more reason, and it was never the goal anyway -- but Abel still sees it fit to rub its obvious existence in his face.

***

Simon spends the rest of the day alone, which isn’t new, and wakes up the next morning to commotion, which _is._

‘Come on, out with you!’ Paula strides over to Simon’s bed and shakes him by the shoulder. ‘Simon, I need you out of the isolator, stat! Grab your things and get out.’

Simon jerks awake.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks, sitting up dizzily. Something is wrong. Has he overstayed his welcome, stretched as it was? Was she really _that_ pissed off after yesterday?

‘No time to talk, a runner got scratched, we need to quarantine her, and that’s the only place. Out, quickly!’ She disappears, leaving Simon alone.

There isn’t much to pack, of course, so less than a minute later Simon stumbles out of the room. Paula is already coming back, a man and a woman trailing behind her, the woman’s arm around the man’s neck.

Simon steps hurriedly aside, letting them go past him, and the woman raises her head with a moan (not _that_ kind of a moan… just a moan of pain). Her gaze lands on Simon’s face, and she lets out a startled scream, jerking away and swaying the man with her. Simon’s hand flies up to his jaw: the cloth slipped while he slept, revealing the mess of his left cheekbone. She probably thought he was a zombie. An ill omen, that. Definitely not something one wants to see when it is possible they might be infected.

‘Simon, wait for me right there!’ Paula shouts from within the room as the other two make their way inside. ‘Okay, Three, now help me get her on the bed, I’ll give her a light sedative, but you have to hold her still. Eleven? Bobbie, do you hear me? Deep breaths, dear, and _do not move…’_

Simon leans on the wall, his legs useless jelly.

…He doesn’t deserve any better.

Nothing, literally nothing should surprise Simon, and he grits his teeth and hates himself for feeling betrayed. Look who is talking.

***

Paula drags him over to one of the few proper buildings, the one Maxine claimed for the patients and herself back in the first days of Abel.

‘Now listen,’ Paula turns to Simon as soon as they step inside, ‘there’s obviously nowhere else to hold you, so I am to let you roam freely around the township, because there is just as obviously not enough manpower to watch your every step, but you’ll have to do what I tell you.’

‘Nice,’ Simon smirks. ‘Do they treat all half-zoms like this nowadays? Did they throw you in the chokey for a day or two when you arrived and then let you out on the green pastures, too?’

‘Aren’t you tired of your own nonsense already?’ for a moment, Paula looks genuinely bewildered. ‘It all depends on your behaviour now. If your attitude leaves much to be desired, we _will_ figure out a way to lock you up without wasting too much resources. Got it?’ she doesn’t wait for him to say anything, just strides over to the desk, picks up a battered cardboard box and thrusts it at Simon. ‘Now be a dear and count these for me, I have to go back to Bobbie now. If you’re done before I come back, there are more under the desk, runners found a new chemist’s today.’

Simon tries not to drop the heavy box, balancing it awkwardly on one palm. Paula grabs something from a desk drawer, turns to leave and throws him a look over her shoulder.

‘I seriously don’t have time for you to be difficult, okay? Just do as I say.’

Alone again, Simon casts a look around. The only time he set foot in the isolator was when runners brought Jack and Eugene to Abel. (Technically speaking, Eugene was the only one who had to be brought in.) Jack actually tackled a zombie that sneaked up on one of the runners and had several suspicious scratches he didn't remember getting, so Simon was the one to let him out two mandatory days later (the man was nearly out of his mind with worry, although not because of the quarantine), while Maxine worked her magic on Eugene.

So, the isolator has never held any particular emotional value to Simon, but the hospital tells another story, especially since it has changed _so_ little, he could almost (almost) be tricked into believing that he only left yesterday. How often would he drop in for some muscle gel or for an elastic bandage to support the legend of a pulled muscle when his leg would give out earlier the same day? Or to cheer up a fellow runner who's lucked out? Or just to chat with Maxine? Now there’s no Maxine and no Simon, both of them as good as dead.

He ignores the dull pulling ache in his chest, sits down at the desk, opens the box and does as Paula said.

***

Simon spends the day counting shit and generally being marginally less than completely useless. He never really paid attention to what non-runners did around Abel, especially amputees, so during the time in the isolator he was disinterestedly trying to figure out what kind of job he’d be given, if they’d ever let him out. Before Jack-and-Eugene started the radio gig, he vaguely remembers the second half of the combo sorting cans or something (mostly because Simon would often be the one to deliver collected stuff to the warehouses and hand them over to whoever was on duty), but one would really like to have both hands for that. What else, then? Folding laundry? Same thing. Kitchen duty? Same, plus he’d probably bleed in the soup by accident. Sweeping the floors? Is there anything at all he’d be able to do?

Paula solved the mystery by assigning him the mind-numbing task of counting endless bandages, cotton swabs, syringes and the like.

So he does just that. The day crawls by like a dying jellyfish: slow and blurred around the edges, and Simon will never ever even pretend to believe Sam when he organizes a supply run solely because the resident doc is moaning and complaining about how few alcohol swabs are left in the stash. There are _gazillions_ of the things.

Simon trips on the thought like on an inconvenient rock and mentally faceplants, though in reality he only slows his hand for a few seconds before resuming the task. Being a runner is another door that is shut in his face now, that’s for sure. No one would let a less-than-healthy man run loose (though maybe they’d change their minds, had they known how for Simon, going out the gates every time was like stepping on the Green Mile), but even if they would… well.

Simon kind of expects the vice to further tighten around his guts, but he only feels numb.

***

He misses dinner (the thought of going out doesn’t even cross his mind), and it takes a contemplative look from Paula for him to realize that she never went out as well. Does she even eat? Simon feels somewhat queasy. He’ll try to stomach something tomorrow.

In the evening Paula nods at a cot in the corner, and Simon soon passes out on it. The last thought on his mind before he slips under is about the tent he used to crash in, but he’s too far gone already to check if he feels anything about it.

The next morning finds him stripping the sheets off the cots (putting on the fresh ones is too complicated, but the first part he manages splendidly. If they gave out medals for that, gold would be his. Or platin) and checking if any of them are tattered enough to be recast as bandages. Afterwards there is a lull in activity, but Simon loiters about, not quite daring to go outside and pretending that he just doesn’t want to. He isn’t used to people anymore.

At noon the front door opens, and Simon is instantly alert. Things like curfew and dinnertime filter out of one’s habits incredibly quickly, but noon has always been the point when the runners would come back from the first shift.

Five enters first, already taking off the stuffed pack. They knock on the doorpost (Paula acknowledges their presence with a quiet call from inside the ward) and walk over to the desk, unzipping the pack and unloading the contents.

‘Hey,’ Simon calls out, suddenly unsure, but Five hears his voice over the rattle of pills, looks up and waves at him.

It’s the first time Simon sees Five after he was locked away, but before he can say anything, Jody comes barging in with her own load. She’s cut her dark hair short, and Simon barely recognizes her at first: it’s staggering how much a haircut changes a person.

‘I swear to god, if I _ever_ slip and fall there again--’ Jody is obviously addressing Five (Five ducks their head, hiding a sly smirk) but then she catches sight of Simon and pauses, a plastic battle of pills already dangling in her outstretched hand. ‘Oh.’

Simon shifts weight from one foot to another, looking at her out of the corner of the good eye from where he stands near the entrance to the ward. He should have probably sneaked inside while he had the chance. At least, people there are asleep and unaware of him.

‘Hey guys, how is it going?’ Paula strides out to greet them -- does that woman ever _walk_ like a normal person? -- and Jody turns to her with relief visible on her expressive face.

Five gestures something quickly before grabbing their now empty pack and leaving.

‘The boys are coming with some machinery in a few,’ Jody interprets. ‘We’re not sure what exactly we found, but it was in the same chemist’s, so you’ll probably know.’

(He missed that voice. He tries to make his atoms fit between the atoms of the wall.)

‘Interesting,’ Paula gives an amused smile. ‘Let’s see, then. How much space will we need?’

‘Nah, don’t worry, it’s quite enough what you have here, it’s not exactly an X-ray machine they’re lugging in,’ Jody pauses and listens to something, head cocked to a side. Her eyes keep flickering to Simon for the briefest moments. ‘Okay, okay, I'm coming! What a bunch of chickens, it's just _four shamblers!'_ Jody looks up. 'Gotta dash, Sam wants me and Five to double back real quick. Ciao!’

Simon stares at the desk across the room, willing himself to go there and sort and count and do something, but his feet feel too heavy and the room seems to wobble.

Now, how long will it take the runners to come back?

‘Simon,’ Paula is already reading the labels, but she pauses to catch his attention. ‘If you would close the blinds in the ward? It’s getting too bright in there.’

He grasps at the excuse and flees from the room, closing the blinds and then sliding down to sit against the farthest wall. There are only two patients, a boy and a girl with chickenpox, lying close to the entrance. Both are asleep, otherwise Simon would’ve nowhere to escape to.

The runners return maybe half an hour later and place something heavy on the floor. They chat with Paula in high tones of people who did a good job, pausing the conversation only to make space for Five’s remarks. Simon hears Owen’s voice; the other one he doesn’t know. He sounds confident. Slightly cocky. Simon can’t make out the words, but whatever he tells seems to amuse others to no end. Maybe it’s the same runner who brought Eleven in yesterday…

Simon shifts uneasily and squints at the pale needle-thin stripes of light on the cold floor.

By the sound of it, the runners help with unpacking whatever they’ve dragged in, and leave soon afterwards, Paula shooing out the smelly sweaty horde, no doubt. Simon hears them pass by the windows, though they are quieter now.

A minute later, Paula pokes her head into the ward, mouth already open to say something, but upon seeing Simon sitting pathetically in the shadows, she decides otherwise and backs out, closing the door. She probably pities him now. It tastes like sand and grit and leaves a sulphuric tang.

Something’s burning inside, and Simon cradles his stomach and shuts his eyes, resting the back of the head against the wooden wall.

***

The booty turns out to include several blood glucose meters, a medium-sized centrifuge (that’s what Paula says, at least; Simon isn’t sure he’s even _seen_ a centrifuge before and has approximately -0.02 idea of what size they are supposed to be), and a mysterious piece of machinery, which (once again, according to Paula) has something to do with blood coagulation, and Paula spends almost an hour cooing and crooning over it, much like Maxine would.

(Glucose meters Simon can justify, but what would a centrifuge and the Doomsday Machine do in a regular chemist’s?)

Simon spends the same hour counting packages of Ibuprofen, Simvastatin, Naproxen and a dozen more kinds of drugs (runners grabbed everything they could, as always) (he doesn’t think about that), their names eventually blurring together. After that he pours the pills and capsules into sealable bags, un-sealable bags, and basically any sorts of containers that will at least try to keep the humidity out, because _apparently_ the packages and bottles are needed somewhere else for _whatever._

Thus ends Step One, and Simon isn’t sure if Step Three is going to be ‘PROFIT!’, but Step Two is definitely ‘???’; come think of it, Simon’s _stuck_ on Step Two for life. He has also kind of lost where he was going with this metaphor, but that only proves his point.

When Simon’s done, it turns out that there’s yet another box of mismatched (thankfully, mostly capped) ( _mostly_ capped) syringes, so Simon sits down right on the floor, balancing a pad on one knee, and sifts through the plastic chaos inside the box with the same degree of optimism that a lone survivor stranded in the ocean would have, running their fingers through undrinkable water.

The burning has only increased over the past hour (so did his irritability), and Simon pauses now and then, trying to centre himself, to maintain a grasp on time and space, because whatever’s eating through him-- it makes him acutely aware of every movement of his body and every shift in the air, and all that’s left of him flakes and falls uselessly away without even bothering to resist.

Speaking of the shifts in the air, Paula keeps shooting him strange looks, probably thinking Simon doesn’t notice. She’s been doing that a lot since the runners came and went. Contemplative, calculating. Waiting. If Simon gave a toss, he’d look back at her to try and figure out who’s on his case: Paula the scientist, Paula the doctor, or Paula the citizen of Abel, who feels _sorry_ for the _poor_ bugger, _deserted_ by his friends. He doesn’t need any of that.

Simon breathes out slowly. Paula lifts her eyes with thinly veiled concern. Oh _bloody hell._

His insides stop burning and start boiling instead, and, without thinking, he channels the sudden pain outward before it consumes him.

‘I’m done counting the fucking syringes! I’m not doing that anymore,’ the burst almost physically throws him up, and Simon staggers to his feet, barely resisting the urge to kick the box. With his luck, it’ll send the blasted syringes flying everywhere, and at least five of them will end up in his eye socket. The air rings, and Simon clenches his fist, the coiled barbed wire in his ribcage jerking him from side to side. ‘I don’t want to… _be_ here…’ he trails off as the coil suddenly stops moving and a shiver passes through his body instead.

‘Then why _are_ you here to begin with?’ Paula asks him from the opposite end of the room, hands on her hips, face mildly disapproving yet controlled. Gone the soft-eyed concern, if Simon hasn’t imagined it in the first place, which he might have done, because the _one_ thing Simon is good at is -- is -- is _fucking up,_ which is really quite a broad field of action, though not something to be proud of.

Amazing how everyone asks the same question, one of the few questions Simon can’t answer. The only question, really, because they all boil down to the same _bloody_ thing.

‘I don’t know!’ he almost shouts, because few things are more irritating than the same question over and over and _over_ again. ‘I don’t _care_ about Abel, I don’t…’ he seethes with sudden rage, saliva seeps into the cloth with every wheezing breath. He’s lost grasp of his mind, helplessly adrift among the wreck, something huge and slimy and scaly lurking in the deep. God, he is such a _mess._

‘Simon, calm yourself,’ Paula says, staying where she is. Right. Keep away from the rabid. The dog bites. ‘You don’t really mean it.’

Suddenly, Simon sees red. Screw the whole biochemistry thing, who the hell was she before zombies? A therapist? A damn therapist, no doubt. Maybe not as an occupation, but definitely as a state of mind. The rest of the thought dissolves in incoherent fury, and then the red fades away and his blood runs ice cold. It’s all crystal clear, really.

‘I can’t tell you why I’m here,’ he begins, and Paula lifts an eyebrow at the steady tone of his voice. ‘But do you want to know why I deserted to Van Ark, Dr Cohen?’

She waits for him to continue, silent and seemingly unmoving, but something imperceptible changes in her stance.

‘Because I’ve always been good at math, and I did a small calculation,’ Simon spits. ‘Because, with my effort, Abel would have lived maybe only a few days less, but in return I would gain eternal life. I didn’t care about every. Single. One of them. I was ready to let them all go up in flames. I was going to _laugh_ at their deaths. The children, the old, the sick,’ he gestures outside, then at the ward, then makes a show of looking pointedly at the desk. ‘The _doctor…’_

‘Get out,’ Paula hisses, cutting him off. ‘Get some air, have a walk, grab a bite, anything, just get out of here right now.’

He obviously hit the bull’s eye, then why does he feel so bitter?

‘Wasn’t _planning_ on staying in your pleasant company,’ he snarls, walking to the door. ‘I do so hope I’ll bump into Skeet out there, and that this time he’ll have enough gut to finish what he started.’

‘Jamie Skeet is gone, don’t you worry,’ Paula is still fuming, but she obviously attempts to get herself in check. Wouldn’t do for the good doctor to commit murder, and in the hospital of all places.

‘Gone?’ Simon stops, unable to keep the surprise rom his voice. ‘Where? Dead?’ He huffs out a laugh. ‘The bastard. Ever wondered how it’s always the good guys who die and the useless douchebags who survive over and over, no matter what?’

‘Oh, believe me, I wonder every day, especially recently,’ Paula glares at him. ‘But no, Jamie is neither dead, nor _un_ dead. He’s away. Now get lost.’

Simon stumbles out into the daylight and rounds the corner of the building, where a narrow path is squeezed between the hospital and the armoury.

(He and Jody would hide here sometimes after their pranks, doubled over because it was imperative to keep quiet, but overwhelming laughter threatened to make their stomachs burst.)

(‘Oh,’ she said. Wide-eyed, distrustful and hurting with the ache of a scabbed-over wound.)

Admittedly, Simon felt nervous about the prospect of seeing Jamie again: after all, he is one of those who has a tangible, personal reason to want to cause him bodily harm, with a nice bonus of having already done so in the past, but apparently this won’t be the case. Now where could he have gone? Simon ponders that question for a while. If he went back to the fire station, Paula wouldn’t say that there was nothing for Simon to worry about, because there very well _was._ Which means that Jamie left for good. Simon’s willing to bet his right hand that the sod plainly got tired of laundry duty rotation and bolted for the hills. Well, not _really_ willing, that’s just to indicate how sure he is.

Simon will probably have to reintegrate himself into Abel’s routine now, figure out the shower schedule and whatnot. The thought of it, the thought of seeing all those people, of seeing _them_ see _him_ sends shivers down Simon’s spine. It was relatively easy with Paula, because she didn’t know him up until recently (did Maxine ever mention him? Would she have had anything good to say?), and it was strangely easy with Five, who is a special case and to whom the usual rules hardy ever apply, but the episode with Jody gave Simon a taste of how it’s going to be, and to say he feels slightly apprehensive about it is to say that Hitler felt slightly apprehensive about the end of the war in April 1945. (There _must_ be something to be said about Simon’s choice of examples, but he genuinely liked _Downfall,_ no point in letting a good reference go to waste.)

Speaking of Paula, now the missing piece of puzzle is finally crammed in place, and it’s hilarious how simple everything turns out to be once Simon shifts the point of view two inches to the right. What he said to her, he really meant at some point in the past: Van Ark was very persuasive, he knew how to make people listen to him and believe him. Not like Simon had to be persuaded after a certain point in time.

But that’s exactly where the main difference between them lies, the crucial difference, the one that saved Paula and threw Simon to the wolves. Paula’s priorities, morals, people she wanted to save -- they all lay on the side opposing Van Ark, while Simon's priorities (and dubious morals) lay _with_ him. Paula had something to protect, and the fear of losing it gave her strength to fight Van Ark, because it would all go to hell if she succumbed. Simon had his fears, too, but they, instead of aiding him like Paula’s aided her, only drove Simon _toward_ Van Ark. Why wouldn’t Simon heed the call, what did he have to look back at, even if his _own body_ betrayed him? To resist would be to die. With the scale trembling between a chance to escape approaching death and a bundle of principles he didn’t necessarily share or understand anymore, the outcome was obvious.

Now, Simon sees how hollow and meaningless it all was, even when it seemed so logical and sensible. Makes, however, a good cattle prod to wave at Paula, at least some good use. Simon wanted to see if he could make her hulk out, and whatever happened just now counts for as much of a win as it seems to be possible in Paula’s case. Which only proves that she’s not perfect. She held out all right, fought the good fight, won the girl and rode off into the sunset, but all her pseudorighteous disdain and condescension toward losers are rendered null and void in his eyes: Simon’d like to see what Paula would have done, had she been under _his_ circumstances.

Back to Earth, anyway. What is he going to do now? Even with Jamie gone, is it-- _safe_ for him to walk around the township? Simon has been out in the open three times; the first one included a ‘Kill the quarterback!’-style pileup, and the other two wheezed by so quickly, he didn’t really have a chance to watch people watch him and gauge their reaction to what they saw.

Who actually knows what the problem is? Well, Spens and her entourage, because that’s their job. Runners, obviously (mostly because Sam is unable to stay silent unless he’s sleeping or stuffing his face), but who else? Both groups would probably try to hush it all up, the former out of the weird urge to plot whenever possible (and, to a lesser extent, to spare the civilians from unnecessary and bothersome agitation, which would definitely be the case after something like, ‘So y’all nearly kicked the bucket, and oh yeah, this prick was involved’), the latter out of the habit of keeping shit in the family.

People saw how Simon was met on the first day, though. Because of that, they will probably be suspicious of him, regardless of how much they know or whether they recognized him at all. Which is an open question, since he does have to hide half of his face, and the upper half isn’t exactly a cover of _Men’s Health._ Even his gait is different now because of the limp, Simon just doesn’t carry himself the way he used to: it doesn’t hurt much when he isn’t forced to run or walk for a long time, but damaged ligaments are still damaged ligaments. And-- he’s simply not the same anymore.

Well, Simon can stay here mulling over it forever, but he won’t know for sure unless he actually shows himself to the world.

He snorts derisively. If past Simon (from, say, a couple of years ago) could see him now, he would laugh in disbelief. Simon the people person, Simon with _every_ finger in every pie -- and look, just _look_ at him.

Oh yes, he’d probably laugh. Or point and laugh. Or maybe cry in horror, if he turned out to be smart enough to realize that it was his not-too-distant future.

***

People don’t recognize him.

Simon doesn’t know if he is relieved or dismayed or something else entirely.

He wanders around the settlement with his head bowed, stealing glances, and notices people looking at him, but it’s either distracted curiosity about the new kid in town, or a flash of subconscious repulsion upon seeing what’s visible of his face (or, in one case, genuine alarm, when a girl mistook him for a zom for a second), which pretty much sums up the range of default emotions around here. There _is_ some recognition, but Simon guesses it’s more of the ‘that guy from the isolator’ variety.

One of the few good things about Abel is that its citizens have a certain sense of respect for privacy. It’s a small community, so any gossip about current events is fair play, obviously, but no one will pry into someone’s past, because every person in Abel carries baggage they don’t want dragged out into the light and dissected in public view, so unless one starts talking, one isn’t asked. Which means that Simon is unlikely to be approached with questions along the lines of 'What the hell happened to your face?' (Like _Five_ didn't ask when they saw him, even though they could, and even though runners are more open with each other, as a rule, never mind that he doesn't fit into that category any longer.)

Simon used to be friendly with many people outside the circle of runners. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if they realize who he is, but he ends up not having to find a solution, because they don’t. Simon sees Felix and Simone walk out of the rec tent, and their quick glances are completely blank; they don’t even slow down their good-natured bickering. Simon got to know them, when Felix called out to his wife across the dining area and found two people turning their heads toward him, even though the two names sound nothing alike. (Simon pretended to seriously claim that he actually heard ‘s’mores’, what with Felix's way to gurgle words, and felt compelled to check, unable to simply reject an idea, however improbable, that there might be some.)

Simon rambles on and finds himself mostly keeping his eyes to the ground, more open areas of the settlement crisscrossed with dusty desire paths. He stays off of them, walking over patches of dead grass.

The gong rings in the air suddenly, announcing dinnertime, and Simon jerks, both because he already forgot what it sounds like and because he never forgot.

His stomach rumbles, reminding that he barely ate anything in the past few days, the last meal being the remains of broth Paula brought for the children yesterday in the evening. Simon is too far gone in his head to pay attention to the rest of the body, and when he does, the burning, clenching, twisting sensation overpowers everything else, but apparently he isn’t entirely against the idea of getting some food now. Which is going to be a Big Step, but, just like with crawling out of the crack between the two buildings cockroach-style, he has to take this step sooner or later, and it’s ‘later’ enough already.

Simon loiters around uncertainly and steps under the wide leaky canvas closer to the end of the hour, most people having already finished their meal and filtered out. Simon used to be among the first to prance over to the kitchens and spend the whole hour hanging out at the runners’ table (one of the few places where he felt at home), but now Simon is unsure of-- scratch that, he is _sure_ of his _un_ welcome. Where will he even sit?

He joins the short queue with some trepidation, keeping his distance from the man before him. The weirdly indescribable smell of food hangs in the air, and that’s when another thought strikes Simon, making him freeze. Screw the seating question, how will he even _eat?_ To do that, he’d need to take off the rags. People would see his face, which is decidedly not on top of the list of aesthetically pleasing things, especially when one is trying to stomach whatever was cooked for today. Moreover, even this long after the injury (yes, ‘injury’ is how he calls that; much shorter than ‘a berserk hitting me in the face with a bat and then zombies mauling said face), trying to eat is extremely uncomfortable and sometimes painful, especially when food spills between exposed muscles or leaks into wounds. Eating in the isolator wasn’t that much of a problem, because he could take all the time he needed -- same thing with the hospital, with an advantage of having tissues for wiping the mess when something unavoidably spills and nicking pain meds when exposed meat doesn’t react kindly to salt, but now…

Simon shivers and beats a hasty retreat, not even daring to throw a look at the runners’ table. He doesn’t really need food now, honestly. He’ll eat tomorrow. Maybe.

***

Simon doesn’t want to go back to the hospital just yet, regardless of whether Paula is going to pity him first or jump straight to vivisection. Neither scenario sounds particularly appeasing to him. Later, it’ll get too cold to stay outside, and there’s little point in trying to outlast Paula and sneaking in when she falls asleep, because Simon isn’t sure she indulges in such petty details of life, but he still prefers to postpone the return of the prodigal son in any case.

In his previous life, Simon’s day was a structured, reliable pattern of runs and training, breaks between them reserved for bouncing around, causing mayhem and making bad puns. He never even _had_ to wonder how people filled their day when not doing their part of the work, but now he’s at a loss.

Simon ends up in a corner of the rec tent, a random book held up between himself and the world. It’s something that’s missing cover and at least several pages, judging by the tattered binding (and the first present page is rendered illegible with darkish stains, that don’t look like bodily fluids but are kind of icky nonetheless), but Simon pays attention to it only half-heartedly, consumed by getting used to others’ presence around him. He doesn’t even watch them, neither; doesn’t need to. The inner turmoil is enough to leave almost no room for anything else. Maybe it’s not the best way to waste some time, but with his brain buffering at the speed of virus-infested Windows 98, incredibly _aware_ of _people,_ it’s sure going to be effective.

Simon’s gaze travels around the spacious room, not _seeing_ per se but just relearning the feel of it like one relearns wallpaper ripples by touch. A man at the opposite end of the tent scratches his chin, pushes an empty tabasco bottle off the chessboard and looks up at him suddenly. Startled, Simon ducks back to the middle of the book.

_‘…The sad history of the anti-hero is nothing more than the history of man’s changing awareness of himself. It is the record of his recoil… Man, meanwhile, goes clowning his sentimental way into eternity.’_

Startled again, but with nowhere to look away anymore, Simon shuts his eyes, retreating inside.

(The tabasco bottle is a bishop. Simon was there, looking over Jody’s shoulder and offering Valuable Input as she added the latest edits to the _Zombie Survival Guide,_ when Chris unearthed the chessboard from God-knows-where and Evan substituted the equally mysteriously unearthed bottle for a missing white piece. A halogen lamp (dead, naturally) became a black knight. Several LEGOs replaced three or four pawns, before children appropriated those, making chess players eventually settle for broken bottle caps.)

People come and go as the day bleeds into evening, someone leaving to perform their duties, others arriving after finishing theirs. Simon floats between here and there and nowhere, tired and woozy, barely acknowledging the surroundings. Children of various ages flock in at some point after school ends and play near the exit, jumping in and out of the tent, letting out shrieks of laughter at something that makes sense only to their tiny group. A small rubber ball rolls toward Simon where he sits on remains of a worn out sofa, bumping against his foot. A toddler not much bigger than the ball approaches him next, eyes round and glassy as he stares at Simon for a few seconds before snatching the ball and running back to the others.

(In Simon’s head, there’s a distant sound of someone crying and coughing around a swell in her throat. She is scared of him, too, but her eyes are squeezed shut in an attempt to deny reality, because, unlike the boy, she can’t leave.)

(Simon is startled for a third time and screeches to a halt when he realizes that there’s nowhere else to escape.)

Parents and guardians arrive later in proportion approaching one-to-one and throw disapproving looks at Simon while making a brave attempt at separating their charges from the rest of children, looking decidedly more exhausted from the effort than a lion pride would after encountering a gazelle herd. Simon keeps his eyes stubbornly on the book; by now, he knows already that it’s an autobiography, but he can't be bothered to follow closely enough to figure out the protagonist.

As the night approaches (and a lone fluorescent lamp hanging down from a cord isn't exceptionally successful at dispersing the shadows), Simon becomes aware of some activity going in the tent, and he knows what this all is about even before the conscious part of his mind catches up to the events. People get up from the bigger table, cleaning up cards and money-pebbles. Their turn is over, and they give up the space for a session of _Demons and Darkness._

Simon throws the book on the sofa and bolts out before the participants ambush him here. It’s almost pitch black outside, the late evening air pierced only by emergency lights marking the pathways, and he walks away from the tent as fast as he can. A part of Simon can’t help but wonder what they did to his level 89 paladin. Did they invent a way to get rid of him off-screen, or did they just pretend the character was never there, dancing around the paladin-shaped hole in their plot as they danced around Simon-shaped hole at the table?

(Simon tries to imagine how they couldn’t pretend at first and resolved to simply skipping several sessions, his betrayal still too fresh in their minds, but fails.)

He ends up not far from the ten-foot-wall around the township, the silhouettes of night sentries on their first shift blending in with the starless sky. Simon decides not to get any closer.

That’s when he remembers how Maxine used to talk about her gaming sessions with Paula (at the time, he jokingly refused to believe it wasn’t a euphemism, which usually earned him a shove and a fireball). It probably isn’t a far stretch to assume that Paula took up playing with the rest of the gang after settling down in Abel. Which means that she won’t be at the hospital, allowing Simon to perform his sneaking bit, so he does just that.

***

Simon’s life was very busy when he lived alone in his hut. Building the thing in the first place, harvesting endless zombie body parts, collecting bits of furniture, clothes, and food -- it all made him move around a lot even before he embarked on a self-assigned mission of picking up toys after Van Ark. In doing this, he kept running away from the problems grabbing at his ankles, even when he couldn’t physically run. The last several days, though, Simon has spent almost still, and his muscles ache, yearning for motion, so the next morning he leaves the hospital at the first sign of dawn (which is quite late, with it being winter and all, but the sentiment is appreciated).

With nothing to do, Simon thinks of maybe going to the rec tent and half-assing his way through the book, but he’d need to sit down for that, and that’s exactly something he wanted to avoid in the first place. In the past, now would be the time for him to stretch and do some yoga before the upcoming day of field work, but Simon doubts that his body will appreciate the gesture. On the other hand, shredded muscle cords and fewer remaining ligaments probably _do_ make him more flexible. Might make sense to try _Kala Bhairavasana_ sometime later, see how it goes.

Soon Simon returns to the hospital to take a leak, where Paula catches him to test something with the blood coagulation thing, only to shoo him out later, when his running commentary finally manages to send her train of science-y thought off a nonsensical bridge. She doesn’t mention the events of the previous day, probably not taking him seriously enough to be bothered.

Janine suddenly approaches Simon as he walks to the other end of the settlement to toss a bundle of bedsheets in the common laundry pile, a heavy yet somewhat determined look in her eyes. His foolish heart leaps for a moment, before the brain steps in. It can’t be forgiveness. Janine is many things, but she isn’t soft. She wouldn’t forgive someone for the sake of forgiving.

Simon has become adept at squashing his hopes and does so without thinking, but a tiny wisp of it trails behind anyway, unlike smoke from a snuffed match. Simon still ducks his head and does his best not to squint. Janine never liked it before. Said it made him look like a stoat, of all things. She used to laugh when she said that. Would she laugh now?

Janine hands him a black cloth. Simon hesitates for a moment before placing the bundle on the ground and accepting the cloth; it feels thick and smooth under his fingers. He searches Janine’s face, looks for a clue. Is it an olive branch? Does it mean something, anything at all? After all, they used to be -- not ‘close’, but as close as Janine lets people get to her, as close as she let _him_ get…

But her expression is blank now. They share this trait with Five, the unnerving ability to completely disconnect their faces from their feelings. The seeming emotionlessness fools no one, but that’s not the point; somehow, it aches even worse when you know you are deemed undeserving, unworthy of being aware what they feel. Like seeking shelter and meeting only window shutters, locked for the night. Being turned away into the dark.

Janine waits; it’s obviously his turn now. Simon unfolds the cloth awkwardly (there’s no other way to do it, really, when you only have one hand); it’s a ski mask, the type that covers half of the face and both ears (or lack of those) and is fastened on the back of the head with a velcro. There are tiny holes for breathing where the mask is supposed to go over the mouth. Simon used one of those during his brief yet passionate acquaintance with mountain skiing. Excellent against frostbites, but disgusting when it doesn’t let any air through and gets moist with the inevitable snot and spit. (One of the reasons he never really got into winter sports.)

(His nose still dribbles sometimes with brownish bits Simon carefully doesn’t examine. How disgusting would _that_ be?)

‘I will thank you to wear this instead of what you currently have,’ Janine’s cold grey eyes flicker briefly over his rags.

They truly are not the most comfortable things to hide his face behind; he simply tore a shirt in two pieces, needing to protect the wounds from cold and dirt, and never got around to finding a proper substitute. Maybe Janine noticed. Maybe she thought that a proper mask would fit better. Maybe she thought it would be easier for him to breathe, too, because two layers of thick cotton aren’t designed for that. Even though Simon is much more enduring now (physically, at least), he still gets dizzy and claustrophobic sometimes and tugs the rags away, sucking the air through his ruined face.

Maybe she thought about him.

‘People complain that you scare the children. This one won’t try to slip every time you turn your head.’

Oh. Of course.

It’s not unexpected, and that’s why it hurts. Because Simon was too busy watching the smoke. Because he hid in his head instead of paying attention to the real world.

He should still thank Janine, but by the time he resurfaces and tears his gaze away from the mask, she’s already turned his back to him and is walking briskly away.

***

Even though Simon has to mash his face into any available surface to keep the mask from slipping while he fastens the velcro one-handedly, it _is_ much more _hand_ y (Ha!) and user-friendly than the rags. Maybe he should check if there’s a terrorist-style mask somewhere in the township, though the prospect of wrestling and wriggling his head inside the thing doesn’t inspire an abundance of hope.

The downside of it, though, is that the mask reminds Simon of Janine, and while he could distract himself easily enough earlier (more than enough things to angst over, feel free to choose, buy one get ten free), now the deceptively smooth fabric of the mask snags on his face, uncaring and alien where cotton used to be soft and pliable, if stuffy.

But Simon still gets used to it, even if he’s unable to fully cope with it. Which can be said about his life as a whole now. He spends days doing small boring tasks for Paula (showing him how to fold a swab from a square piece of a bandage and ordering to make several hundreds is, apparently, her way of ensuring that Simon doesn’t run off and get in trouble) between bouts of jump-in-the-ice-water experiences when he leaves the hospital for food or just a change of surroundings, which used to be so perfectly mundane it’s laughable how stressed it all makes him now.

The year has only begun painstakingly turning toward spring, which doesn’t help much on the temperature front yet, and Simon uses that as an excuse to pull the hood of his jacket down nearly to his eyes when he has to go outside. People have stopped overwhelming him (most of the time, that is), but Simon is still repulsed by the idea of showing any skin.

At least, the shower schedule turns out not to be a problem (he dreaded undressing in front of people, the very thought of it making him nauseous, which is something so out of character it’s not even worth mentioning), but apparently the hospital is off limits when it comes to supplies, and even the command wouldn’t make sick people trudge all the way to the showers and cheerful outdoor lavatories every time they want to have a splash or pee. Of course, it still pretty much conforms to the traditional bucket system, but running water is a thing of the past in any case.

So Simon works and wanders around, numbed out of his mind and waiting for the day to end; at night, he lies awake for ages and listens to blood pulsating in his eyeballs, pretending to find it soothing.

***

Simon has figured out a way to eat. The Evil Masterplan of the Evil Mastermind consists of sticking to snacks and bars, when there are any, which he then mixes with a bit of warm water from the saucepan oh a gas heater, where Paula boils her equipment. After whatever he picked up transforms into gooey mass of chocolate, muesli and dried fruit, Simon spends a better part of an hour consuming it, head tilted to a side. Which is kind of a good thing, really, because concentrating on making food go where it should go temporarily pushes all other thoughts and worries out of his mind. After all, Simon is still supposed to be human, and humans instinctively prioritize physical pain over everything else. (Of course, then there are heroes and martyrs, but Simon is neither.)

Besides, it minimizes his contact with people on kitchen duty. Even if someone recognizes his name on the list, they are most likely to assume that he’s just a namesake. It does seem far more probable than this Simon being the same Simon.

Simon tries to spend as little time as possible in the dining area, the busy noise and Brownian movement of people making him agoraphobic, and he intends to follow the plan this time as well, _Tesco Raisin Munch Bar_ (sadly not of the peanut variety) already in his hand, but that’s when someone zooms past him, making Simon turn around to avoid the collision and subsequently nearly collide with Five instead.

‘Oh, there you are,’ Simon looks down at Five, who by sheer magic manages to save their food before it tumbles off the tray. ‘Haven’t seen you around for a while, huh? Sam’s running you ragged, I bet?’

Which is a good point (the ‘not seeing around’ bit, not the ‘running ragged’, though runners’ schedule has never been for the weak), and it’s not like Five is the only one of Simon’s good old chums with whom he hasn’t been hanging out every night recently, but… The thing is, Five _was_ the one who convinced Simon to come here (maybe they didn’t convince him _completely,_ but obviously _enough_ ) and basically showed him something other than outright hostility after what seemed like an eternity spent in the state of continuous war, even despite him waving a gun at them. And it’s also not like Five _owes_ him anything because of that, it’s just… well, they kind of do? Simon just didn’t expect them to vanish out of view so completely. Even though he doesn’t make an effort to socialize, he also makes no secret of where he stays. (Simon does slither out of the way when runners bring supplies, but he listens to what they say, and their conversations lack gaps in the shape of Five’s silent words. After that first time, they never came again.)

Five’s gaze flickers briefly to a side, after which they do this sideways nod with a shrug and a frown, a combination that usually stands for ‘sort of’.

‘Is it just me, or are you really avoiding me?’ Simon asks, unable not to, and since that’s the only thing that can have any value in this friendly chat, why not ask about it directly? ‘Hiding from the silly Simon? He wouldn’t notice or give a damn, now would he?’

His voice sounds whiny. The whole thing sounds whiny, and Simon didn’t intend it to be like that, but then there’s this sudden lull in the noise when all people just happen to fall between two words while speaking, and in this split second Simon watches his own words cross the gap between him and Five. Simon’s mouth twists resentfully along with his gut, but he already knows he will keep provoking Five until they react.

Five puts their tray down on a nearby table and raises their hands, each gesture slow and precise, obviously mindful of Simon’s swift degradation in regards to sign language. _‘Meet -- after -- food? Hospital?’_

A new wave of disgust at this whole situation rises inside Simon. Five shows him mercy, charity. Exactly how much of his pride is left to throw it back in their face?

‘Five, you coming over?’

Five looks to a side, and Simon’s head swivels in the same direction before he can stop himself, and, of course, the call has reached them from the runners’ table by the wall, packed with people. A pea flies from one end of the table to the other, probably sent on its merry way by Jody’s fork, as usual, and somehow it’s this one blasted pea that sets him off.

‘Forget it, I don’t need anything from you,’ Simon snaps and leaves, weaving his way among people as fast as he can.

The cereal bar in his hand is squished beyond recognition, but it would make sense to care if he weren’t planning on breaking it to pieces before soaking in water anyway. It wasn’t pride that made him snarl at Five, and the thought rings in his ears. Simon knows that he dramatizes and basically behaves like a child, but the acute sense of loss as he glimpsed the runners rendered him unable to react in any other way.

Simon decides to break this streak and act like an adult for a change, and then barricades himself in the hospital till the next day. A group of runners comes by in the evening to discuss something with Paula, Five among their numbers, but they speak too quietly for Simon to discern any words.

***

Simon sits on a bench near the flat dirt square that is supposed to be training grounds for the runners. It’s early morning, which is exactly why he is able to be here: the first shift of runs is already in progress (the _Run Zero,_ because it’s so ungodly early), and people who are scheduled for later still have time before coming over for warming-up. Sometimes children run around here during PE, but certainly not now.

Elbows on his knees and head in his hands, Simon disinterestedly watches hoar-frost thaw on tangled strands of brown grass as the sun unhurriedly climbs its way up. He’s been doing that a lot lately, the numbness setting deeper and deeper in his bones. Simon would give a toss if he had any to give.

There’s movement on his left side, and Simon half-heartedly shies away, but then the person leans forward and into his field of vision and turns out to be, unsurprisingly, Five. Simon breathes out sharply through his nose in an attempt at a snort, but doesn’t acknowledge their appearance beyond that. Five’s probably smug as hell now, though sneaking up on his blind side is not a terribly outstanding feat, no need to pretend to be Houdini.

Five settles down on the bench, and both of them stay still for a while.

Finally, the last bit of hoar-frost disappears without a trace, and Simon turns his head in Five's direction. They look tired, a vacant look on their frowning face. Simon remembers the visit to the hospital from the previous day.

 _‘Why so serious,_ Five? All of you. Or is it simply how you guys roll now? Wanted a change of image?’ he smirks without any real humour behind his words. Just to say something. The most important has already proved to have no value, so now it doesn’t matter what Simon chooses to push out of his mouth. It can be ancient Chinese for all he cares and all the difference it makes.

Five pulls the notebook out of their pocket, scribbles something on a new page and gives it to Simon.

_1 of the rnnrs turned grey soon after we came back. we burned her. bf is fnly ready to do smth w| ashes, so we escort him outsd today evening_

Ah, so Eleven didn’t make it, after all. Paula never mentioned, although she probably ended up looking after the ashes-to-go cup. Strange thing, these scratches: unlike with bites, you never know your luck.

 _Those_ runs. A part of Simon feels the phantom pain of it.

He returns the notebook and squints at the sun. Today is going to be bright and clear, as if it matters at all.

Simon glances at Five a minute later and notices that their perpetual frown has surpassed 'uneasy' and jumped straight to 'guilty'. _‘Dost thou deceive me, my eye?’_ Since Simon can see that, it means that Five actually wants him to see.

Simon doesn’t feel like he has anything useful to say on the topic, so he returns to watching the sun. He can almost hear Five’s frown, which rather spoils the whole sun-watching experience.

'Don't bother, Five. I know I'm not the most pleasant company, no need to hang around or explain anything.'

After a small pause, Five starts writing again. A minute later, Simon hears Five offer him the notebook, waiting for him to take it. But Simon doesn't see it, so he pretends not to notice anything just for the sake of being difficult, until Five actually pokes him in the shoulder.

_by bringing you to abel, i feel like i took responsibility over your life here. but my perception of things doesn’t agree with reality. and i see that you are |||||| ||||||||||| unhappy here, but i find myself not strong enough to do anything to change it. i'm sorry._

Simon stares at the uneven lines. Before 'unhappy', several words are violently scratched out. And Five’s still disregarding the very idea of capital letters, but holy wow, full sentences and complete words, no ‘mslfs’ or ‘anyths’. Shit has just got real.

Five fidgets -- fidgets! -- and Simon looks away again. Well, after all, what else was he to expect? Did he, by any chance, think that Five would invite him over to the runners? That they would manage to persuade others that Simon was worth something? That they’d bring him back to people, with cheers and music and throwing hats in the air? Simon is doubtful, to say the least, that even Five’s status of the boss of the pack would do much for his case, which is apparently what they try to convey to him right now.

Though, maybe, by saying they aren’t strong enough, Five means that they can’t find it in their own heart to plead his cause.

If even Five, resourceful, smart Five doesn’t know what to do, then Simon sure as _hell_ doesn’t.

Five gets up, and Simon, remembering that he still has the notebook, looks up at them and returns the thing. Five gives him an apologetic smile and walks away.

Simon watches the sun rising.

***

Something changes in him after that conversation. Simon used to be getting number and number every day, but now it’s as if something cracked in his very core (his rotten core), and another something leaks out through the rupture, poisoning him cell by cell. It’s not the burning feeling that used to consume his every thought unless Simon made an effort to look past it, but somehow it’s even worse.

Simon hates Abel with renewed force. When he was an outcast, a sore loser in the middle of a ring of twitching limbs, being alone was natural, and it was his choice. But now Simon is more alone than ever, and he no longer has a forest of grey body-parts to blame for that, no cloud castles to build, full of ‘whens’ and ‘what ifs’.

Time goes on, showing no mercy, and widens the rupture bit by bit, like a bored and curious child jabbing a stick into the entrails of some dead animal on the side of a road, pushing dirt and dust in its soft defenseless belly.

At some point the feeling stops being nauseous and becomes painful, discarding all pretences and biting into Simon full force.

It hurts, dear God how it hurts. Sometimes it sleeps, and then it’s okay, then it’s almost bearable, but sometimes it wakes up, and then it’s twisting and turning and gnawing at his insides, and Simon freezes and bends over, arms around his stomach, trying to hold his body together, and prays that he’ll be able to draw another breath, and another. It’s like a full-body spasm or a seizure, and it leaves him shaking and heaving and never wanting to move again.

Sometimes it wakes up when Simon is asleep, but this _is_ the misery that loves company, so it awakens him too and makes him curl up, mouth open in a silent scream. It’s not physical pain, but it hurts so much that his bones rattle. Oh how he hates himself for that.

Simon stumbles through the township, through his tasks, through sometimes uncaring, sometimes scared, sometimes hostile looks of people around him. He crawls though the day, dreading the night, and wakes up not seeing any real point in getting up. He does so anyway. He has to do something, because everyone earns their place in Abel. He hates the township, but outside he’ll lose what little will he has left. And _this time_ he won’t try to get away. Maybe he’ll finally stop aching if the zoms tear him into microscopic pieces, but if he doesn’t, enduring an eternity while existing in a million pieces is as terrifying as it is grotesque.

He hates Abel. He wouldn’t betray it again, though, because that would mean that there’s something worth betraying for -- to get or to keep. The only thing Simon has is this pain, mauling its way through his shell of a body. It’s worth nothing.

Simon used to be confused about the lack of actual _punishment_ from the high command. Sure enough, they placed his fate in Paula’s hands, making her do their job and decide for them, but Simon has no doubt that they get enough reports from her. _‘Was outside all day. Refused to eat. Scratched the couch.’_  
Maybe they are still figuring out what to do with him. Hell, _Simon_ is still figuring that out, and he has nothing else to do all day long.

***

Simon sits near the training grounds. He comes here more and more often now, every morning and every evening (if there are no people, of course), and sits on the same bench, facing east. Every day, the sun comes up slightly more to the left, almost imperceptibly, but Simon sees it and follows it like a flower or something. Before sunset, he stares in the distance and watches shadows grow, spilling out from under his feet.

(He shuddered awake in the middle of the night, his chest contracting in on itself. The episode reminded Simon too sharply of that one seizure he got before-- before everything, and he bolted out of bed and sneaked outside hours before dawn, hopelessly breaking the curfew, but the curfew was the last thing on his mind.)

The sun peeked out from behind the fence some time ago, and it’s only now, as the dull rays keep caressing his dry eyes, that Simon starts to feel the cold, too devoured by the black hole in the cocoon of his ribs to pay any attention to what is outside his body.

The icy air bites at his skin, and Simon tugs the right sleeve over his fingers (which is surprisingly tricky without using another hand or teeth) and huddles, hunching his whole body slightly forward. He can’t help shivering anyway, though maybe not entirely from the cold. Simon would scratch the ‘maybe’ part here. And the ‘entirely’ one, too, while he’s at it.

It’s especially bad today. Might be because Simon didn’t get much sleep, but it’s not like he’s been getting a lot in the past… forever.

Simon tries to distract himself, lose himself in whatever he does, become one with it, because he can’t hurt if there’s no body to feel pain. Sun-watching doesn’t feel pain, sorting pills doesn’t feel pain, boiling water doesn’t feel pain, but Simon can’t detach himself fully enough, and it pulls him back and crashes in, and he stands still, every muscle locked and trembling, until it whooshes past and leaves Simon panting, a lump in his throat crushing the windpipe.

(Simon did try yoga, as a last-ditch attempt, because nothing could ever clear his head, restore his inner balance and all that lofty ideals rot better than turning into a human pretzel of an intriguing form, but collapsed even before properly entering a sun salutation. It just felt too much of a mockery, too much of an _insult,_ and after that first and only try Simon resolved to just watching the sun rise, saluting it silently and motionlessly, his joints uncooperative and stiff.)

Simon jerks and tries to jump off the too-familiar train of self-hatred, but it’s already too late. _‘One slip, and down the hole we fall.’_ Simon curls up, forehead pressed in his knees, and lets out an involuntary whine as the faceless thing rumbles and gnashes its teeth, stretching and popping its spine, spreading through his body to grasp at every cell and _yank._

The burst of pain makes Simon gag once, but then it passes, and he pushes himself up, drenched in sweat, and a quivering forearm across his knees trembles under his weight.

There’s this sense, to which he was blinded before by the attack _(‘Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think don’t think don’t think’),_ but now it forms itself into something recognizable, weasels its way into Simon’s mind.

He’s being watched.

But Simon is too late again, for the second time in maybe a minute _(‘Don’t think about it!’),_ and by the time he turns around, he’s alone again.

Earlier, Simon would have noticed. He used to be better at that. He used to be better at everything.

The thing inside grins and spins in circles, knocking at Simon’s ribs, excited by his humiliation. Simon gets up jerkily, makes a few steps and nearly falls over as cold blood from the legs rushes up to his torso. At l-- at least, it gives him something to focus on, and Simon slowly makes his way to the hospital, one shaking step after another.

***

No matter what he does, Simon can’t stop the tremors. Paula looks at him weirdly and attempts to question him, but Simon has nothing to tell her. Paula gives up on him soon enough and disappears into the ward, throwing over her shoulder that he should drink something warm if he doesn’t want to keel over and end up on her side of the ward doors, the room packed almost full with feverish people. End of the winter always hits everyone hard, what with the lack of multivitamins and proper fresh food.

Simon dips a mug in the saucepan (no instruments boiling in it at the moment, though he probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway). During his first days here (the second run, obviously, not the first), Simon would most likely ignore the doctor’s order purely out of spite, but he doesn’t have any spite left in him. Simon sits at the desk, sipping the lukewarm water whenever he remembers he still has the mug in his hand. He doesn’t remember very often.

The attack has sapped what little energy he had, and it’s already early evening when Simon recharges enough to stop impersonating a dead fish and becomes more or less aware of the world again. He might have done something during the day, maybe even something productive, considering Paula hasn’t thrown him out, but Simon can’t for the love of him remember anything at all.

Still, the sun goes on rising and setting and basically being the only reliable thing in Simon’s life now, so he drags himself over to the training grounds. Children are playing dodge ball close to his bench, their statue-like guardian wrapped up in so many layers that they hardly resemble a human anymore and approach conceptual art, so Simon sinks down on another bench farther away from them and, bleary-eyed, watches the shadows unfold. From this bench, Simon’s shadow slides over a stack of logs several feet away, breaking over every individual piece, and it makes his skin crawl for some reason.

Slowly, Simon becomes aware of a sound. A combination of sounds, rather.

_click-kalick thump click-kalick thump_

In the post-apocalyptic world, medicine quickly loaded the last save, reverting to its famous pre-WWI state with its favourite motto: if treating it is too much of a fuss, chop it off and feed it to the dogs. (Wait, maybe not the dogs. Or was it Ancient Rome? Simon always mixes up those two.) This philosophical view explains the not insignificant number of amputees in any settlement, and the sound of crutches hitting soil is something one hears so often, it’s long since blended in with the background.

 _This_ noise, however, stands out because of the bloody ‘kalick’. The pair of crutches is mismatched, and after a more or less successful attempt to make them the same height (otherwise, the spine and shoulders start complaining and make the owner even grumpier, which is something nobody wants) a screw in one of the crutches became a bit loose, making the two parts move against each other, which puts the ‘ka’ in ‘kalick’ ever since.

And even after all this time, the lazy wanker still hasn’t fixed it.

Interesting how Simon hasn’t seen Eugene since his arrival. Like, at all, as well as Jack. Even though Simon has switched to actively avoiding people he knows instead of just not making an effort, he still sees them from time to time, what with Abel taking up exactly one square foot of the land. On the other hand, Simon remembers the two spending _a lot_ of their time in the comm shack (these memories include him dropping by every six seconds to request a song or offer running commentary to _their_ running commentary, neatly dodging flying objects, catching edible ones and skipping happily away), so it would make sense to assume that Falcon and Captain _Canada_ keep on doing just that.

Distracted by his thoughts, Simon doesn’t notice the sounds getting closer until Eugene actually plonks down on the bench next to him.

‘Hey.’

Just like that. Is Simon not invisible anymore? Not a miserable lousy creature no one wants to play with? Seems unlikely. Simon turns to Eugene and searches his face, wincing at a crick in his neck (why does everyone insist on sitting on his left side?), and huh, that’s another person that hasn’t changed at all. Only got shaggier, if that’s even possible in Eugene’s case.

‘Hi…’ It sounds a bit like a question, and Simon looks straight ahead again. Now there are two shadows where only one used to be for ages, but Eugene’s doesn’t break over the logs, spilling a foot away from them.

Now what is Eugene doing here? Why did he come?

‘I, ah-- actually, I wanted to talk to you.’ The intonation lifts slightly at the end, like Simon would refuse. Would he?

Oh no, if Eugene didn’t recognize him and hobbled over just for an after-dinner chat with a random guy, Simon is going to _scream_ even if it’s the last thing he does.

‘I’d rather have this talk somewhere inside, it’s getting windy. Out tent isn’t far away. If you don’t mind, Simon?’

Simon’s eyes widen, he hopes he doesn’t start too visibly. So Eugene _does_ know to whom he is talking. And yet he’s still here. Huh?

Eugene gets up again and leans on his crutches with what is probably supposed to be nonchalance, but in reality somehow makes him look like a flamingo.

‘As I said, if that’s fine with you, but I’d rather we _did_ talk.’

Again, _huh?_

Dumbfounded, Simon gets up as well. Eugene nods once and starts click-kalicking swiftly away. That’s yet another person leaving barely after arriving, while Simon stays behind in the dark. Is Simon really supposed to follow this time?

Eugene stops at the edge of training grounds and looks back at him.

‘Well?’

Jack and Eugene got a new tent while Simon was away, one of those tall things for campers who can’t be bothered to trek and just take a car instead. Even with Simon’s height, he’s going to be able to stand without acting as an additional pole. Maybe the high command finally realized that making a one-legged man crouch to get to his bunk is not good for their image.

Eugene sticks a crutch under the flap and pushes the zipper halfway up, then bends slightly to grasp it. In that moment, Simon thinks he sees something small and vaguely grey shoot out of the tent (startling Eugene as it goes), but it disappears into the approaching dark before he can process what he saw.

‘The damn cat,’ he hears Eugene mutter.

They have a _cat?_

‘You have a cat?’

‘Yeah, Nat, the little pain in the ass. Jody’s going to take over her soon. I’d love to see them fighting over yarn. Alright, come in and close the flap behind you.’

Inside, the tent is… neat. Simon’s been in their previous tent quite a few times, to have a round or ten of after-curfew poker, and the place always resembled a war zone more than any kind of living quarters. This tent is slightly bigger, though, maybe that’s the case?

Nah… Jack’s clutter fills any container in which it is placed and then some more, and Eugene doesn’t rage much about it as long as there’s a clear path for him to tread.

No, the mess is not as overpowering not because there’s more space, but because there are fewer objects to form said mess. Instead, there are several crates to his left, stacked in two rows and _overflowing_ with stuff. Are they moving to another section or something? Were too noisy for neighbours’ liking? Such thorough packing doesn’t look like their jam, though; Simon would expect them to start throwing things in boxes no sooner than five minutes before the final warning. Okay, maybe ten, but only because they’d get bored halfway through and stop for a snack or a snog.

Hopefully Eugene didn’t invite him over to lug boxes. Earlier, Simon wouldn’t have minded lending a hand, but now he’s too short on those.

‘You want a drink?’ Eugene asks and makes his way to a wooden box by the two bunk beds without waiting for a reply, flicking the light on as he passes a lamp. Simon watches him sit down on the bed and rummage in the box, both hands now free. ‘I’ve got here-- Well, it’s actually something you brought me a while ago. Remember?’ he tilts a half-empty bottle of brandy at him with a suddenly sheepish look. ‘Um. Sorry, I guess--’

‘No, it’s fine,’ Simon hugs himself (the body yearns to shatter again, the spasm building up slowly but mercilessly), aborts the movement, tries to place hands on hips, but he’s one hand short and it looks awkward, so he finally just lets them dangle, suppressing the shivers. He finally realizes what this feeling is. A bent wooden plank shivers like that in the last moment before splintering and breaking. Simon can feel the splinters already, tiny cracks running along his body.

Eugene places the bottle on the bed and gestures for Simon to take a seat while he looks for glasses. Simon sits down carefully, as if he’s made of glass, too, and places himself strategically to the left from Eugene, so he won’t have the pleasure of staring into an unseeing eye, and Simon won’t have to twist his neck to keep pretending that he is capable of actually looking someone in the face. He touches the dark bottle with a finger. It would be nice to say that he remembers smuggling it in for Eugene, but truth is that he doesn’t. Whether because it wasn’t that big of a deal back then or because a part of him wants to tear off and forget everything that ever happened before his fall (which makes little point, since _after_ the fall there’s definitely nothing worth remembering), he doesn’t know, and the sucking empty feeling inside doesn’t leave much room for contemplating life.

Eugene sits back down and tugs one of the sleeping bags between them over his left thigh, hiding it from the chill (Simon can relate), then reaches for a small radio at the head of the bed. He turns the volume up, and Simon hears soft music. He doesn’t know the song, but apparently it means something to Eugene, because he gives a small nod, turns the radio off and puts it back down.

Eugene pours the alcohol, and Simon stares numbly at the glass in his hand. He should probably try to drink this, no need to offend the first person who gave some sort of a damn without feeling in any way _responsible_ for him. Won’t Eugene be offended more, though, if he dribbles brandy all over the place?

Simon attempts to calculate the damage and figure out the lesser evil when Eugene notices him glaring down at the glass.

‘Oh god, you probably-- I didn’t even think-- Janine said-- Uhh, let me take this from you…’ Eugene grabs the glass and cringes awkwardly, both glasses in his hands now. ‘Um. How can I help you?’

The worst thing is that his question doesn’t sound like a polite pleasantry. It sounds like he actually wants to know a way to help, in his own stilted (ha ha _ha_ ) way, and Simon hisses out a quiet laugh. For all his ready tongue and endless chatter on the radio, Eugene has always been ridiculously bad with words when it came to anywhere _near_ talking about feelings, and Simon has no idea why he even bothers. Maybe for the sake of old times. No one else seems to care about those, though, so Simon’s probably wrong. As always, really.

‘I don’t know.’ His left arm aches, and Simon grabs the stump without thinking, just to give himself something to do.

 _‘You can’t’_ is probably a more truthful answer, but Simon was never a stranger to lying by omission, so he does just that.

‘Does it hurt?’ Eugene looks down at the stump and shifts slightly. Maybe he feels more confident on familiar ground. Missing extremities are something Eugene Woods knows a lot about. Unlike feelings. Simon tries not to scoff.

‘Kind of,’ he confesses. ‘I mean, it doesn’t really heal, so there isn’t much to be done about it.’ A sudden thought strikes him, and he almost giggles at the absurdity of it. ‘Sometimes I think that maybe it’s because my hand was in a weird position when it got chomped off. You know, like in that medical series?’ Simon sort of hopes his hand is now forever showing a rude gesture or something. With his luck, though, it’s most likely not the case at all.

That’s also more than he’s said in one go in a long time. Usually, the familiarity feels like a stab in the gut, another twist of the stick in the child’s hand, but now Simon feels just a little bit more like his normal self, the one from before.

Eugene doesn’t look like he recognizes _House M.D.,_ the royal bore, but he has this thoughtful expression on his face now.

‘Would you like me to have a look?’ he asks, putting the glasses on the box’s lid. ‘I mean, if it’s a muscle cramp, I got quite adept at getting rid of them, what with…’

Simon looks down at his lack of a hand. Would it hurt to try? Does he have anything at all to lose, if it doesn’t work?

( _‘Why not?’_ he thought and approached Five when the sheep strayed from the flock; the Dedlocks burned his house down. _‘Why not?’_ he thought and followed them to Abel; Simon doesn’t even know where to begin the list of things that have gone wrong.)

(So... why not?)

‘It’s ugly,’ Simon says. ‘You wouldn’t want to see.’

‘I’ve seen enough, I think I’m pretty much immune by now,’ Eugene shrugs, but Simon shakes his head.

‘You don’t understand. I’m as good as a zom now. _It doesn’t heal._ It looks like someone just cut up dead meat.’

‘If it truly were the case, you would _stink,’_ Eugene tilts his head. ‘You don’t stink worse than any of us on the day before showers, so it can’t be that bad.’

Simon suspects that Eugene will back off if he refuses his help, but does Simon _want_ to go back to being ugly face to ugly face with this nothingness that scrapes at his guts? Or does he want to chase everyone off and wait until he finally can’t breathe in? What does he want, God, _does he want anything at all?_

Without thinking, Simon holds his right arm across the hollowed out stomach. There are splinters.

Maybe Eugene won’t notice them. Maybe he won’t notice if Simon distracts him. So he turns his face away and shrugs his jacket halfway off, rolling up the sleeve and taking the old bandage off the stump. It _is_ ugly: zombies aren’t exactly plastic surgeons, the jagged end of the ulna sticks out a good couple of inches more than the other bone, and Simon’s own stitches are literally the icing on the cake. Unlike with sports, he’s never been good with fine motor skills, and it’s not the easiest thing to stitch oneself up anyway, if one is not a movie protagonist. Simon certainly isn’t, that much he knows. Or maybe he is an a bad black comedy. Now that would explain a lot...

The evening air feels cool on raw discoloured skin, and Simon kind of expects Eugene to gasp or something, but he is silent. Maybe it’s a good sign. Simon is afraid of what he might find if he looks, so he doesn’t.

Eugene holds the stump in one hand and gently prods it with the other. It hurts, but not much worse than the usual, so Simon can’t bring himself to care. That’s when Eugene _presses_ on something, and Simon hisses and coughs, choking on a lungful of air. The pain is so sharp and intense, that even the nothingness coils tightly inside, shying away from the flames. In a distorted way, it’s a glorious feeling.

‘Sorry,’ Eugene says and presses again, lighter this time, massaging the knot that Simon feels now is there. ‘I have to say, I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yourself, what with you being the epitome of staying fit. I will not believe that you’ve never had cramps in your life.’

Simon has nothing to say to that. It’s just another testament of how degraded he’s become. Every time Simon thinks that he can’t fall any further, he does.

‘There. Better?’ Eugene lets go of his arm and sits back, looking at him with a calm expression. Simon listens closely. It didn’t help a lot, really, simply because there are too many things that hurt, and that’s just on the outside. But together all separate little pains compose a symphony to which Simon became used over time, and now Eugene silenced one of the instruments. It doesn’t change the whole feeling of the symphony, nor does it make the music noticeably quieter, but it’s still one voice less. That’s probably what ‘better’ is, so Simon nods.

‘Thanks.’

Eugene nods in return. Simon should rewrap the stump, but it will take forever and provide the kind of entertainment reserved for traveling freak shows, so he shrugs the jacket back on and rolls the sleeve down.

‘Where’s Jack?’ Simon performs another distraction manoeuvre while he tucks his arm against the stomach and under the jacket. And it’s not like he doesn’t want to know, after all; Simon can’t really remember them ever being apart if they can help it. And if they can’t, enter the Sulk of epic proportions, impossible to miss.

‘Valiantly manning the radio for both of us tonight. We procrastinated until the last possible moment and were actually planning for tomorrow night, when it’s Zoe and Phil’s turn to take over the evening broadcast, but then it became apparent that we shouldn’t wait any longer. Jack will come only after ten and is really bummed that he isn’t here, but, you know, maybe it’s a good thing, maybe two people would be too much.’

Eugene keeps jumping between a state of calm approaching Zen and this jittery agitation (babbling included) so quickly, that Simon is constantly thrown off balance. Not to mention that it feels like oceans dried out and mountains turned to dust since this morning, so nobody can blame him for taking a few extra seconds to connect the dots, but Simon still feels so _brainless_ for not doing it sooner. The thing start to unfold inside, feeding on his self-deprecation like it’s the best snack in the world. Simon gets an unsettling feeling of a trap grazing his guts with teeth of steel, searching for a nice cozy place to bite down.

‘So you were the ones watching me earlier?’

‘Well, Jack, obviously. I’m not the sneaky type,’ Eugene replies with a smile and a shrug.

Jack, whose sneaking skills approach those of an elephant stampede, one of the reasons people gave up on training him for a runner. And yet Simon failed to notice him in time. He suppresses a flinch as the trap finds a point of purchase and snaps shut with a squelch.

‘…And then we somehow ended up deciding that I should be the one to approach you.’

‘Can’t see why, Jack’d probably do a better job at cheering a guy up, what with him being the local clown and all.’

Simon regrets his words as soon as they shoot out of his mouth, but it _hurts_ again, the plank trembling under the force, and he feels so hopeless and so utterly alone, the trap weighing him down, the slimy scaly creature pulling him away from the surface, and so he attacks the only person within his reach before the pain swallows him whole. Way to go, Simon. Way to _fucking go._

Eugene’s expression hardens. ‘Jack has it bad sometimes, too,’ he says, back to the still calmness, but now it’s unnerving for entirely different reasons. ‘You might remember how I wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine during the rehab, but you never saw Jack at his worst, because he never even has the strength to get out of bed on such days.’ Eugene pauses and exhales. With that, he seems to deflate slightly, his edges blunting a bit. ‘You and Jack, you are quite similar, you know, with your happy-go-lucky exteriors and a ready laugh. So are you really that blind to think that only you possess hidden depths?’

It’s not a slap, but it stings like one. Simon deserves that, that’s all he deserves.

Suddenly, he remembers something and makes grabby hands at the thought, forced to play catch up for a second time in a row.

‘Approach me for what?’ And then it hits him, the obvious explanation, the fact that baffles everyone so much. ‘Wanted to ask me what I forgot in Abel?’ He should stop snarling like that, but Simon’s just too offended by the whole world and can’t bring himself to expect anything good from it.

‘What?’ Eugene frowns, looking disoriented.

Just like that, all ire, all spite go out of him. Now Simon just feels _incredibly_ tired. He hunches up. Maybe the child, whoever and wherever this child is, will get bored and walk away, leave him to bleed quietly. Simon can’t fight it anymore.

‘No, we thought that we could, erm, understand you. Specifically, that I could.’

Simon throws a glance at Eugene only to see him frowning again, eyes focused on something visible only to him. Soon, he seems to reach a decision and starts speaking.

‘When Jack went missing after the rocket hit Abel, I thought I lost everything.’

That part was obvious enough to Simon back then, but still, hearing it in actual words almost makes Simon relive those dark days of running literally ragged on endless missions to collect, search, recover. How rattled everyone was, even those whose biggest problem was a burnt tent.

(Here, he wonders if Janine thought along Eugene’s lines when she received the news that Simon was dead. Probably not. Why would she?)

(After all, Simon isn’t Jack. Jack would never…)

(God will never forgive him. His lungs fight for air, but it only brings the texture of burnt grass and ash.)

‘I left the girl for the zoms,’ Simon blurts out, his vision swimming. ‘She was, she was so… she was coughing so badly, and I left her so they’d have… so they’d become _distracted…’_ The words taste like slugs, sliding out of his mouth, thick and slippery.

It’s something neither abstract, nor impersonal enough. It’s something corporeal and tangible, that can’t be excused like unrealized desires can. He did literally drop a scared and sick child on the ground, hoping it would gain him some time while zombies munched at her. No idea why Eugene thinks that he and Jack are _anything_ alike, no idea why he insists on claiming to understand him. As if there can be an excuse plausible enough, believable enough. (That it can be sufficient or justifying enough, Simon doesn’t even take into consideration, because even he sees the atrocity of what he has done. His only hope is that at least part of him saw it back then, too.)

The pause presses in from all directions, heavy and suffocating, and Simon hears Eugene swallow.

‘I remember,’ he finally says. ‘That was a _monstrous_ thing to do, and if the others weren’t fast enough and she died…’ he trails off, there’s nothing to add. ‘But…’

Simon feels like a man with a noose around his neck, teetering on the very edge of the wobbly stool when it gets shoved back under him for another minute. What ‘buts’ can even _be_ here?

‘See, it’s not only…’ Eugene continues after another pause, visibly struggling to find the right words. ‘Jack saved my life many times on the road, like it always happens with the zombies out and about. But he also saved me from humans.’ Here he catches Simon’s eyes (eye) and waits for him to nod, to understand implications. ‘You know the official version, how I fell and broke my leg, the one we chose to reply with when people expect something more serious than “pirate recruitment”, but it’s not the truthful one.’

And so Eugene tells him the story, the one about the fire, the squatters, the sudden stab of pain, the feral, dead look in Jack’s eyes and the sick, wet, crunching sound of wood forcefully meeting flesh, then bone, then _something else_ over and over again, until it all fades into fever and unconsciousness.

Simon listens, barely breathing. He bloody well knows a dark oppressive secret when it hits him in the face, and has no doubt about _what_ Eugene is telling him. Eugene halts now and then, fighting to unearth the old pain and transform it into words. It seems that Simon is the first person to hear the truth. To know what darkness lives inside Jack, laying claim to his soul.

‘…So now you see. I suppose, Jack would handle this better, would be better at reaching you, but, even as an outsider, it’s still obvious to me how alike you are.’

‘Wh-- what is your point?’ Simon is forced to restart when his voice breaks. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘My point is that Jack got his atonement, even though he keeps paying his debt.’ Here, Eugene’s gaze flickers for a moment to their two bunk beds, pushed together. Simon suddenly remembers Jack being closed off and gloomy on some mornings, saying he didn’t sleep well, but never complaining about it, even though Jack would complain about _anything._ ‘So maybe, you will get yours, too.’

Why won’t Eugene understand? For people like Simon, there’s no such thing as atonement. Someone can slip and fall and do terrible things, but it’s still just a _mistake,_ made by a _good_ person who went down the wrong path. Someone wicked, though, someone wicked has no right to expect any kind of redemption and should be shown no mercy.

Simon’s shoulders bow down with the weight of it. He rests his elbows on his knees before his spine breaks in thirty-three pieces.

‘So, back to my original thought…’ Eugene ploughs on suddenly, the stubborn sod. ‘When Jack disappeared, when people stopped saying that I should keep hoping and started telling me to get on with my life -- the change happened fairly quickly, -- I thought I had nothing left. At all. No point in trying.’

It obviously pains Eugene, both to remember and to express, and Simon goes back to those days again. He heard Eugene slowly become more and more numb and uncomprehending as he directed recovery missions, heard the dull anxiety and the lack of sleep in his voice, and then Simon provoked and annoyed him with advanced humour for mature people right during yet another run, until Eugene threw a rage fit. It exhausted him so much every time, that he was bound to catch at least a few hours of sleep afterwards, allowing everyone to breathe a little easier for a while. At some point, Simon had to Rinse-and-Repeat almost every day, Eugene’s reactions getting less violent as he was retreating deeper and deeper into his grief. But on one mission, Simon found the remnants of WG, and a few hours later it started to look like there was still hope for some people.

‘…The only thing that kept me going was the need to know for sure. To see evidence that would point to his death. Until then I had to go on somehow, in _any_ state, but that was _the only reason.’_ Eugene sighs. ‘This is what I mean when I say that I understand you. You lost everything. For what you’ve done wrong…’ Eugene pauses again, searching for words. ‘…And you were condemned, and deemed deserving to ache for the rest of your life.’

Simon hangs his head, eyes shut, throat hurting too badly to even attempt speaking.

‘But apparently you’re going to _live_ forever, too, and suffering for that long is just too much for anyone,’ Eugene offers him a wry smile. ‘Call me prejudiced, but you _were_ the one who brought Jack back home. To you and Five I owe my sanity.’

Eugene doesn’t even ask him what his reasons for betrayal were. As if it doesn’t matter. As if, in his eyes, Simon would deserve that atonement thing even if he sold Abel for a can of _Irn Bru._

Eugene can’t possible believe that there’s still something in Simon that is worth forgiving for. If he does, then only because he doesn’t know the full picture, and his not-inherently-evil mind fills in the gaps with what Simon _doesn’t have in him._

Maybe if Eugene saw his face…

Maybe if Eugene saw his face, he would finally know. He would realize how wrong he was in even _thinking_ that there’s something to be saved from the wreckage. If a person’s face is a mirror of what is going on inside, then Eugene would… Eugene _will_ finally see how utterly hopeless Simon is.

But Simon hesitates. The thing in him contracts, tugging at his ribs (Simon almost hears them creak), pushing bile up his throat, _laughing_ at his indecision. If he were at least one _hundredth_ as deserving as Eugene thinks him to be, then he’d be strong enough, he’d be brave enough, he’d be…

The thing safely distracted by his pain for a split second, Simon straightens his back, turns to Eugene and tears the mask off his face before he can stop himself.

There. He did it. Whatever happens next, he can’t undo it now.

Simon faces Eugene and forces his eyes to stay open. As Eugene looks at him, Simon becomes hyper-aware of the damage that was done to his face. What everyone can see with the mask on, are two long gashes that start at his left eyelid and end above the temple among streaks of grey hair, another two gashes at the temple itself, and the milky surface of the blind eye.

But under the mask (without the mask), the lowest gash broadens into a hole that is his left cheek now. Some of the muscles are torn right out, others flayed and shredded. (Sometimes, out of morbid curiosity, he watches in the mirror as the muscles tense and relax at his command. More often than not, it ends in vomiting.) (Once, Simon thought he saw something _foreign_ moving between the tissues. He dropped the mirror in terror.)

The muscle around Simon’s mouth is somehow left intact, which saved at least some of his diction, but just a bit farther away from the lips, his teeth and the inner curve of his jaw are visible through the reddish, brownish mess. Simon’s managed to more or less set his nose back to its original shape, but inside something is irreparably broken, leaking like a bad pipe.

Right as Simon realized that he had to do something and rushed to get off the ground and fight his way out, a zombie bit at his ear, tearing it clean off. So there’s that, too. If someone ever wanted to see evidence pointing to his death, physical or not, they wouldn't have to search further.

And now Eugene sees it all.

Simon doesn’t know what he expects Eugene to do, but he is motionless and calm again as his gaze moves over the ruins.

He sees it all. Now there are no more excuses for him to make, no need to pretend he understands. If _this_ is the surface…

Simon sucks the air in, and it bubbles through the holes, no longer muffled by the mask. Part of him wants to run, to flee and end this humiliation, but there’s nowhere to run and no point in fleeing, because he can’t escape from what he’s become. There is nothing left to do.

The thing tugs at his sternum, and Simon folds up slightly and shuts his eyes, unable to look anymore. The only sounds in the tent are his harsh breathing and the soft wet clicking and slurping of saliva in his mouth. Simon’s arms start to tremble.

Suddenly, something touches his right shoulder, and Simon shivers at the sensation even through layers of fabric and cracks an eye open. It’s Eugene’s hand, and he grasps him lightly by the shoulder and pulls him in with slow and careful movements, like guiding a spooked animal. Dazed, Simon has nothing to do but follow him again. Eugene cradles the back of his head with the other hand, gently pressing Simon's cheek to his shoulder.

But it's the left cheek, the butchered cheek, and heartless gravity will make him dribble on Eugene's sweater. Simon jerks in alarm and tries to pull away, but Eugene doesn't let him, doesn’t budge at all. Overbalanced, Simon has to lean into him, and Eugene accepts the added weight, his breath ghosting over the open wound on Simon’s crown.

Overwhelmed and confused, Simon stares at the wall over Eugene’s shoulder, fighting for each breath against the iron hoops around his ribcage. He can’t think, can’t process anything; the only jagged fragment thumping in Simon’s helpless mind is that _it’s unfair, it’s unfair,_ though he can’t say what. The rupture widens, tearing his cells apart as it goes, every painful gasp only making it worse, but that’s, _that’s what he deserves._

The trap twists violently, mangling his insides, and Simon tries to fold in on reflex, to protect his abdomen, but Eugene is in the way, and Simon accidentally wipes his face in an attempt to curl up, leaving a short sticky trail on the fabric. Shame makes a grab at him, but it'll have to join the queue.

Eugene doesn’t say anything, doesn’t hate him for ruining his clothes, doesn’t react at all, only tightens his arm around Simon’s shoulders, physically holds him together when Simon is no longer able.

And there and then, his entirety as much of a mess as his face (the _warped_ mirror, but somehow ever so true), coarse fabric of Eugene’s sweater scratching at his exposed flesh and stray threads getting in his mouth, Simon feels something else begin to unfold, something so tentative and small, it’s barely noticeable in the turmoil.

What Simon has done, the weight of it, the _sin_ of it, is his burden to carry and his alone, from now and until the day he’s finally allowed to _requiēscere,_ even if not _in pace._

But the _agony_ of his sin…

This, he is allowed to share.

Bristling with splinters, the plank is released and unbends, trying to return to its intended state, and the splinters catch at each other, breaking off and creating new cracks. Making his whole body ache as something in it finally straightens after curling up under pressure for so long.

With this new purifying pain, something tourniquet-like loosens up in Simon, and he sags powerlessly against Eugene. New blood runs past the tourniquet, _burning_ through his body, and Simon can’t, he can’t take anything of it anymore, what has he _done…_

‘I’m--’ he gags, the words scratching their way up his throat with barbs, falling from his lips like rusted nails. ‘I'm sorry. Please...' he chokes, it's either speaking or breathing, and not letting it out is _not an option._ 'I'm _sorry...'_

Whatever it is, it burns its way through Simon's body with his blood and up to his eyes, and he gasps when tears start flowing all of a sudden. He hasn't cried in so long, not since he was lying on the ground, beaten and bleeding, drowning in helpless anger and the sense of inevitable doom. Tears sting like acid, and he finally winds shaking arms around Eugene, clutching at the back of his sweater, pleas and sobs tangled in a barely articulate mess.

Simon doesn't know with whom he pleads: with Eugene, with Carena, with Abel, with God staring down at him, with the whole cruel Universe, begging, _dying_ to be heeded, but he can't stop, the sounds tearing through him like explosive bullets, each one leaving him rawer, weaker, stunning him and shaking him apart.

The rot is cut out, burnt out, shot out piece by piece, and what little is left, washed clean by the salt of tears, is slowly starting to heal.

Eugene holds him wordlessly through every shiver and shudder, through every explosion, and Simon cries, and cries, and cries.


End file.
